THE  ROBERT  E.  COWAN  COLLECTION 

PRESENTED   TO   THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CHLIFORNIH 


C.  P.  HUNTINGTON 

dUNE.   1897. 

Recession  No,6  f  f  3  t>       Class  No. 


SILVER  SHIMMER. 


BY 

WILLIAM  DARWIN  CRABB. 


SAN  FRANCISCO: 
A.  L.  BANCROFT  AND  COMPANY, 

Printers  and  Bookbinders. 
1874. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

WILLIAM  DARWIN  CRABB, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington, 


OF  THB 

NIVERSITY 


IBIS  scant  unequal  Silver  Shimmer 
On  the  crystal  sea 
Of  Poetry— 
On  whose  deep  sea  these  faint  rhymes  glimmer — 
To  her,  the  one  who  read  them  first, 
Who  most  inspired  them 
And  admired  them; 
Whose  tropic  heart  hath  interspersed 

The  sunshine  of  her  sunny  fate — 

These  glints  of  fancy,  broken-versed, 

These  glints  of  s0ng,  I  DEDICATE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

AN  ASPIRATION  7 

THE  GOLDEN  GATE     -  -     9 

A  DOUBLE  PROPHECY      -  1 2 

TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN  -    18 

Rick  Dane's  Story,       -  20 

The  Old  Man's  Story,      -  -    27 

The  Old  Lawyer's  Story,  -                  32 

The  Rancher's  Story,        -  -    40 

PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS — Canto  one  -                  45 

BE  IT  So   -                 -  -    89 


SILVER  SHIMMER. 


AN  ASPIRATION. 

* 

FEEL  some  deep  and  tall  eternal  aspira- 
tion 
For  something  out  beyond  the  common 

whirl — 
For  music  with  a  grander  intonation 

Than  even  grand  old  Ocean's,  in  its  swirl — 
A  lunging  upward  of  the  part  Immortal, 
To  catch  a  flying  glimpse  beyond  "the  portal  PJ 

Last  night  mine  eyes  walked  o'er  the  far  embor- 

dered 

Blue  heavens.;  and  they  strolled  along  its  seas 
Of  silver  clouds,  and  'long  the  wild,  unordered, 
Swift  comet-rivers — leaned  against  its  purple 
trees, 


8  SILVER  SHIMMER. 

Whose  buds  are  waving  stars,  whose  tops  do  blos- 
som 

With  suns  and  moons,  \vhich  toss,  O,  far  across 
them. 

I  thought  I  saw,  trailed  upward  thro'  the  crimson 

Of  sunset  clouds,  the  shadow  of  that  thought. 

My  soul  leaps  westward — leaps  and  swiftly  swims 

on 
The  crimson  flood — I  reach  my  hands,  and  it 

— is  not  ! 

My  soul  falls  backward,  sick  from  its  exertion, 
And  feeling  all  desire  amid  its  deep  desertion. 

This  frets  the  flesh  away — this  trackless  yearning — 

This  pleading,  everlasting  call  ! 
O  this  eternal  reaching,  and  returning 

Heart-empty  to  this  tame  and  barren  ball  I 
Ah  !  even  Cleopatra's  love  were  breastless^ 
When  this  aspiring  adds  unrest  to  restless  I 


THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 


THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 

HERE  stand  two  sun-lit  battlements, 
The  pillars  of  the  Golden  Gate.- 
They,  many  a  year  of  olden  date, 
As  angel-builded  resting  tents 

Have  seemed  to  weary,  beaten  ships, 
Which  gleamed  with  eyes — with  eyes  untold 

That  gazed  above  stern-bitten  lips — 
Dreamed  dreams  of  Love,  but  gazed  for  gold. 

A  gate  between  of  shining  wave 
Swings  out  and  in  and  everlasting. 

Here  feet  find  rest — some  hearts,  a  grave, 
And  hopes  fulfill,  or  die  of  fasting. 

* 
And,  as  a  mouth  drilled  thro'  the  mounts, 

It  seems  to  breathe  a  breath  of  gold 
Out  of  the  deep-gorged  peaks  that  hold 
Their  mints  of  minerals  and  the  founts 
Of  blessed  streams,  with  beds  of  treasure 


OF  THB 

UNIVERSITY 


10  SILVER  SHIMMER. 

And  banks  of  wealth  and  blooming  glory- 
Where  Nature  is  eternal  pleasure, 
And  trees  are  green,  when  Time  is  hoary. 

And — like  a  large  rich-laden  flower 
Of  gorgeous  hue  and  deepest  sweet 
Where  bees  crowd  on  with  fretting  feet— 

The  Bay  blooms  up,  with  under  power, 
From  ocean's  heart  of  trembling  blue  ; 

And  men  crowd  on  its  restless  rim, 

Where  steeples  tower  and  banners  flow, 

And  sunny  winds  float  sound  of  hymn. 

The  city  of  the  Golden  Gate — 

Shall  she  be  built  a  grand  and  fit 

Metropolis  ?  or  she  forget 
The  Builder  of  all  good  and  great, 

Till  He  shall  strike  his  fiery  hand 
Beneath  the  proud  magnificent 

And  sink  her  streets  of  hollow  sand — 
And  sea-swirl  lull  her  discontent? 

Shall  she  become  the  dream  fulfilled 
Of  Poe's  fantastic  poetry — 
Become  "The  City  in  the  Sea?" 


THE  GOLDEN    GATE. 

And  Ocean  tread  the  iron- willed  ? 

And  rocks  rise  up  in  wrath  and  close 
The  eye-entrancing  Golden  Gate, 

And  leave  it  to  a  strange  repose, 
Or  winds'  and  sea-waves'  long  debate  ? 


1 1 


12  SILVER  SHIMMER. 


A  DOUBLE  PROPHECY. 

J 

3 HE  amethystine  sky  of  youth  is  not 
IjjSo  brilliant  purple,  as  it  was  of  old. 

1 1  see  much  farther  through  the  ways  of 

men — 

Can  read,  thro'  human  eyes,  much  deeper  down 
In  hearts,  the  motives  of  the  reckless  world — 
Can  better  make  interpretation  of 
The  touch  of  human  hands,  if  they  be  true, 
Or  false — can  see  a  buried,  pallid  sorrow 
Hid  'neath  the  flowers  and  grasses  of  a  laugh — 
Can  analyze  a  tear,  if  it  be  sweet 
Or  bitter — aye,  am  wiser  in  the  ways 
Of  unaspiring  earth.     But  then  I  know 
I  cannot  see  so  deep  into  sublime 
Delightful  skies.     The  limit  of  my  look — 
My  vision  Heaven-ward,  is  drawing  in. 
No  thought  of  God  so  pure,  so  high,  so  sweet, 
But  I  could  reach  it  with  the  finger  tips 
Of  boyish  faith,  and  touch  the  gems,  and  smile 
With  expectation  of  some  better  day 


A  DOUBLE  PROPHECY.  13 

Wearing  a  crown  beset  with  those  sweet  truths — 
And  then  to  promise  better  days  was  promise 
Of  loveliness  indeed.     The  leaves  seemed  cut 
In  image  of  some  truth,  some  bliss — seemed  cut 
With  diamond  of  God's  finger  ;  and  the  streams 
Seemed  pouring  o'er  the  tongue  of  Nature  to 
God's  sea  of  wisdom  ;  and  upon  those  streams 
I  made  my  daily  voyages,  and  drank 
The  boundless  waters  of  this  sea.     The  stars, 
I  held  them  in  my  hand,  and  praised  their  Maker. 
There  was  no  spirit  tempest — no  despair 
Could  sink  them  in  the  sea  of  sky — no  doubt 
Could  stir  its  waves  to  toss  them  from  my  reach. 
I  held  the  hand  of  her  of  youthful  beauty, 
And  followed  in  the  trail  of  eye-gaze 
That  reached  far  nearer  to  the  infinite 
Than  mine.     'Twas  easy  then  to  journey  up 
Unto  the  citadel  of  God.     It  seemed 
The  very  angels  wound  their  fingers  round 
Her  ringlets,  shimmering  in  the  sun  of  health. 
Her  tread  seemed  ever  bearing  up  ;  and  I 
Reached  up  and  after.     The  glory  of  the  skies 
Well  had  been  proud  of  the  resemblance  of 
Her  mellow  eyes — the  glowing  red  of  eve, 
Been  proud  of  kinship  to  the  redness  of 
Her  cheeks.     The  spirit,  that  did  breathe  the  life 


14  SILVER  SHIMMER. 

Into  the  universe,  could  press  her  soul, 

It  seemed  to  me,  and  not  pollute  it  by 

The  touch.     'Twas  in  the  May-time,  and  I  had 

Bethought  myself  insane  to  think  THAT  May 

Of  trust  and  joy  would  desolate,  as  Mays 

Of  seasons  fall  beneath  the  shrouds  of  winters. 

My  dreams  were  more  delirious  with  delight 

Even  than  the  bubbling  real.    But  then  the  mind 

Is  half  a  prophet ;  and  the  things  we  spurn 

As  superstitions,  by  the  reeling  head 

Of  reason,  retreat  by  day,  and  reattack 

Us  in  the  night,  and  pillage  every  citadel. 

We  waken  in  the  morning,  sad,  at  first, 

Then  call  it  superstition,  and  rebuild. 

The  capture  of  a  joy,  the  stabbing  of 

A  hope,  the  murder  of  a  love  are  all 

Preacted  in  our  dreams;  and  yet  we  laugh 

And  call  it  superstition.     So  with  me: 

When  flowers  were  at  their  fullest,  and  the  grass 

Was  colored  emerald,  and  when  the  moon 

Bloomed  brightest  of  the  May,  then  stars  began 

To  tremble  (in  my  dream)  along  the  west 

And  toss  beyond  my  reach — then  one  by  one 

Sink  in  the  rolling  of  a  distant  storm. 

The  moon  began  to  shake  upon  its  stem, 


A  DOUBLE  PROPHECY.  I  5 

And  then  it  laid  its  face  beneath  the  flood, 
Which  still  came  nearer.    Now  the  roof  sounded 

with  the  roar 
Of  winds  and  waters.      Flowers  broke  from  their 

stems 

And  rolled  in  the  mud,  and  then  were  sunken 
In  water,  as  the  stars  had  sunk.     I  could 
Not  see  far  up,  and,  as  I  gazed  about 
Upon  the  washing,  wasting  earth,  I  thought 
Of  her  ;  and  she  was  distant ;  and  the  waves 
Had  tossed  between  us;  and  the  drift  of  wrecks 
Too  thick  to  number,  struggled  out  in  ruin. 
The  waves  grew  thick  with  muddiness  at  times, 
Then  rushed  with  fury  on ;  and  waifs  and  wood, 
In  pieces,  piled  around  my  feet.     I  cried ! 
But  seething  of  the  waves  and  battering 
Of  floating  pieces  outspoke  my  utterance : 
And  then  I  looked  and  saw  she,  whom  I  loved, 
Was  drowning  in  the  sea — drifting  beyond 
The  reach  of  me  forever.     This  was  a  dream. 
I  wakened  with  the  superstition  deep 
Upon  my  soul ;  and  then  I  combed  the  tangles 
Out  of  my  locks,  and  combed  the  superstition 
Out  of  my  brain  with  the  electric  teeth 
Of  thoughtless  laugh  ;  then  ran  to  meet  my  — 

nameless. 


1 6  SILVER  SHIMMER. 

But  she  had  wed  another,  strange  and  tall  ! 
An  avalanche  of  snows  had  slidden  down 
Upon  me  in  one  night  ;  and  all  the  glow 
And  glory  of  the  mountain  foot  and  vale 
Had  shrivelled  in  a  night.     I  cast  my  looks 
Up  to  the  former  amethystine  skies — 
They  hung  a  broad  and  ebon  coffin  lid, 
Too  mighty  for  my  feeble  strength  to  lift, 
Too  hard  to  penetrate,  to  get  above, 
And  so  I  could  but  turn  to  digging  down, 
And  sinking  deeper  in  the  treacheries 
And  lower  wisdom  of  this  barren  world. 

Leaves  now  seem  handkerchiefs  of  Nature,  hung 

Shaking  before  my  face  in  mockery; 

And  I  have  wandered  from  those  streams  that 

flow 

Into  God's  sea;  and  dust  from  fruitless  digging 
Of  grumbling  men  worries  me  on — and  yet 
Sometimes  I  would  aspire  again.     The  thoughts 
Of  that  luxuriant  summer  I  have  seen 
Come,  in  my  musing,  and  convert  the  frail 
And  flickering  spirit  fire,  I  kindled  as 
My  sun  went  down,  into  the  image  of 
A  balmy  May  sun  ;  and  my  chamber  walls 
Of  marble  color  turn  to  amethyst ; 


A  DOUBLE  PROPHECY.  I 

And  stars  hang  in  the  window,  and  I  reach 
To  handle  them — and  then  I  start,  and  mutter: 
"  Tis  but  a  superstition  !"     But  the  hear/ 
Says  this  is  real.     So  I've  come  to  call 
Our  dreams  and  reveries  the  deepest  truth — 
The  prophets  of  our  active  lives.     Here  is 
The  remnant  of  my  hope,  that  this  day-revery 
Dolh  prophesy  the  restoration  of 
What  vanished  with  fulfillment  of  a  dream. 


1 8  SILVER    SHIMMER. 


TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN. 

m 

3T   was  a  place  where  people  mix 
I  Of  all  grades  up  from  the  border  "  bricks' 
lAnd  men  of  the  gentler,  polished  tricks, 
To  men  of  morals  and  minds  correct 
As  Pharisees  after  the  strictest  sect. 
It  was  a  place  of  diet  rough, 
Of  diet  scarce,  but  jokes  enough. 
It  was  a  place  of  creviced  faces 
And  hanging  heads  and  troubled  paces. 
It  was  a  place  where  many  a  man 
Has  held  his  head  in  a  cloud  of  smoke, 
Seated  aside,  as  if  a  ban 
Had  driven  him  out  o'  the  midst  o'  folk. 
It  was  a  place  where  many  a  one 
Has  sat  and  smoked  and  stories  spun 
And  watched  the  smoke  curl  up  and  off, 
His  mind,  on  the  wings  of  every  puff, 
Flowing  away  to  another  time — 
To  an  olden  love  in  another  clime. 
It  was  a  night  in  January; 


TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN.  19 

And  a  "  norther""  had  just  swept  down 

Driving  the  sunny  day  from  town, 

"  Swift  and  cold  as  the  very  scratch," 

As  the  landlord  said.     "Thunder!  very!" 

Said  the  lawyer,  lighting  a  tuft  of  grass 

To  light  his  pipe  instead  of  a  match, 

At  the  same  time  grasping  the  wooden  latch 

And  slamming  the  door  till  it  shook  the  glass. 

The  place  was  hard  and  the  people,  too; 

And  yet  as  I  write  is  written  true; 

A  rough  truth's  better'n  smooth-tongued  lies. 

The  cold  north  wind  had  whipped  us  in, 

And  the  bar  was  full  of  smoke  and  men, 

And  ruffian  thoughts  and  plots  of  sin, 

That  warred  the  silent  memories 

Coaxing  us  back  to  calmer  seas, 

Coaxing  us  out  o'  the  horrid  din 

Back  to  memories  sweet  as  youth — 

Back  to  memories  strong  as  truth  ! 

"  Hello  !  Rick  Dane,  ye  old  consarn ! 

Ef  you  ain't  here  !     Now  spin  us  a  yarn — 

Best  in  the  market.     Come!  none  o'  yer  slang, 

But  spit  out  yer  yarn  .!"  shouted  a  man 

With  a  look  of  rock — yet,  nine  to  ten, 

His  heart  was  flesh.     "Well,  let  me  hang/' 

Muttered  Rick  Dane,  "  Ef  you  come  to  find 


20  SILVER  SHIMMER. 

This  chap  in  duty,  or  yarns  behind  !" 

The  dreamy  eyes  of  a  lazy  boast 

Suddenly  rose  from  their  bed  o'  sleep, 

As  he  saw  Dane's  face  grow  sad  as  a  ghost, 

And  he  said  to  us:  "  I  look  fur  a  heap 

O'  stirrin'  story  fro'  Rick  to-night; 

Fur  his  face  is  ez  long  ez  the  '  moral  law;' 

An'  suthin'  has  given  his  brave  heart  fright — 

There's  suthin'  a  troublin*  his  mental  crawl" 

"  Well,  then,  if  I  must,  I  must,  I  'spose; 

So  fill  me  a  pipe — there  !     Boys,  here  goes: 

But,  'fore  I  begin,  let  the  laziest  man 

Stir  up  the  fire — en'  thet's  you,  Dan ! 

Hurrah!  for  a  thrust  at  the  red-hot  blaze  1 

Ho!  for  whiff  on  whiff,  till  a  blue  smoke-maze 

Shall  be  unto  me  and  the  yarn  I  tell 

As  a  lady's  veil,  in  throwin'  a  spell 

O'  increased  beauty  over  the  veiled  t 

Yes,  ho !  fur  a  thrust  in  the  deep  red  fire, 

And  a  deeper  thrust  in  a  redder  heart! 

Blaze  up,  old  fire,  you're  rude  assailed ! 

Go  up,  old  bald  head  smoke — aspire, 

Ez  the  Scripturs  say!     Now  I'm  ready  to  start." 

RICK  DANE'S  STORY. 
I've  rid  on  these  borders  when 
I  tell  ye  'twaz  awfully  rough 


TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN.     2  I 

With  winds  and  the  dust  and  thousands 

Uv  other  sich  horrible  stuff. 
Ez  the  preacher  would  hev  it — but  give  me 

A  whiff  to  open  the  way! 
Whew!  somebody  stir  up  the  fire; 

Fur  the  very  devil's  to  pay 
I  should  say  from  the  speed  o'  the  wind ! 

And,  boys,  the  cut  uv  its  whizz 
Reminds  me  o'  many  a  blusterin' 

Night  with  a  rushing  o'  biz 
Thet  wuz  bloody  ez  butchers! — but  somehow 

Or  'nother  I  haven't  the  nack 
O'  keepin'  the  text,  so  I've  gotten 

A  good  ways  out  o'  the  track. 
Well,  the  time  I  am  speakin'  uv,  boys, 

It  wuz  a  night  thet  wuz  dark 
Ez  the  landlord's  hands,  sometimes, 

When  he  stirs  the  fire  fur  a  spark 
With  the  other  end  o'  the  poker— 

A  night  ez  wuz  still  ez  if  stark, 
Ez  tho'  thet  the  air  wuz  a  lump 

Ez  hard  and  ez  black  ez  a  coal. 
It  wuz  a  time,  boys,  ez  when  thet 

The  price  uv  a  human  soul 
Wuz  €z  cheap  ez  the  price  uv  a  "  lager.," 


22  SILVER  SHIMiMER. 

An'  sometimes  scurcely  ez  dear — 
When  the  towns  wuz  ez  scattered  an*  few  . 

Ez  eyes  that  never  a  tear 
Hez  ever  run  out  uv — besides,  boys, 

The  few  little  towns  thet  thur  waz 
Wuz  treacherous  places,  you  bet, 

And  laughed  at  the  nonsense  o*  "  laws/' 
Well,  I  wuz  a-lodgin',  one  night, 

In  one  o'  them  treacherous  places; 
I  hed  been  on  a  hunt  that  day, 

And  hed  jest  got  out  o'  the  traces 
An'  turned  into  bed,  to  think 

Uv  the  times  when  I  wuz  a  boy, 
An'  think  uv  a  hand  ez  wuz  wrinkled 

And  old  and  trembly,  an'  toy 
With  a  hand  ez  wife  young  an'  steady 

And  smooth  as  the  ball  o'  yer  eye, 
An'  chuck  at  a  chin  ez — but  that  is 

A  matter  o'  her  an*  I ! 
I'm  tellin'  o'  when  I  wuz  lodgin* 

In  one  o'  them  treacherous  towns. 
Ez  hard  as  a  flint,  it  wuz, 

Comparin'  its  morals  to  stones. 
I  lay  on  my  bed  for  a  minit — 

Then  suthin'  disturbed  me,  ez  if 


TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN.     23 

The  voice  o'  distress,  or  the  like 

Hed  given  my  spirit  a  "diph." 
I  turned,  an7  I  listened,  but  then 

Thar  wuzn't  the  sign  uv  a  sound — 
An'  I  know'd  it  was  only  a  kind 

Uv  a  fancy  a  flittin'  around. 
But  still,  ez  I  lay  on  my  bed, 

Thar  wuz  suthin'  kept  tellin'  to  me: 
"Go  down  to  the  street  that  is  under 

The  hill,  Rick  Dane,  an'  see  ! " 
I  laughed  at  myself  fur  bein' 

A  suddent  a  tremblin'  slave 
To  only  a  kind  uv  a  fancy, 

That  boasted  myself  so  brave. 
And  yet  ez  I  laughed  there  wuz  suthin' 

That  kept  up  a  pitiful  callin': 
"Go  down  to  the  street,  an5  go 

The  house,  uv  the  lime-stone  wall,  in — 
To  the  street  down  under  the  hill, 

An'  rescue  a  star  that  is  fallin' ! " 
A  man  that  is  ever  so  brave, 

To  a  danger  that's  said  in  the  ear, 
When  it's  said  to  the  sperit,  may  set  him 

A  feelin'  almighty  queer. 
I  laughed  as  a  crazy  man  does, 


24  SILVER  SHIMMER. 

Wi'  not  very  much  oj  theleelin' 
Uv  laughter  into  my  soul ; 

Fur  I  feared  some  feller  was  "  heelin'  " 
Some  one  ez  wuz  betterV,  worthierV, 

The  rest  uv  us  rowdies  that  roved — 
Some  one  ez  wuz  better  'un  us, 

An3  God  an'  the  angels  loved  ; 
An'  which  they  had  whispered  to  me: 

"Ef  I  would  go  down  to  the  street — 
Step  into  the  shoes  uv  one 

That  hed  purer  and  youthfuller  feet, 
And,  if  need  be,  die  fur  the  same !  " — 

Well,  I  finally  riz 
And  went  to  the  door  a  minit, 

To  listen  ef  there  wuz  the  whizz 
Uv  bullets  in  hearin' ;   if  so 

To  go  to  the  place  o'  the  "  biz." 
Then  I  went  to  the  wall  that  wuz  lime-stone 

On  the  street  that  wuz  under  the  hill. 
I  stood — and,  exceptin'  the  chug 

Uv  my  breast,  it  wuz  terrible  still — 
When,  shortly,  an'  all  uv  a  suddent, 

The  scream  uv  a  woman  burst 
Out  oj  that  house  infernal, 

Wi'  voices  o'  men  accurst  ! 


TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN.     25 

I  broke  in  the  door  in  a  rush  ; 

And,  back  in  the  horrible  room, 
Three  cowardly  cut- throat  men, 

More  devilish  thar  in  the  gloom, 
Threatened,  with  knife  and  pistol, 

A  woman  that  jest  hed  begin 

To  drop  the  blossom  o'  purity 

Under  the  frost  o'  sin. 
Twuz  only  a  mi  nit — and  thar's  whar 

I  got  this  scar — d'ye  see  ? 
And  them  three  men  went — well — whar 

God  is  judge,  not  me! 
I  felt  it  wuz  perfectly  right,  fur 

Suthin'  within  kept  callin': 
"  This  is  the  liftin5  oj  her  that 

Only  a  little  is  fallen!" 
She  said  "For  the  sake  of  a  love  .  .   .  .  ! 

But  I'm  going  to  cleanse  this  breast ; 
For,  because  I  have  lost  a  part, 

Then  why  should  I  lose  the  rest  ? 
When  God  has  made  me  as  pure 

As  I  was  when  I  was  a  girl, 
I'll  write  to  you,  the  angel 

That  saved  me,  and  send  you  a  curl." 
So  why  should  I  be  too  hard 

On  a  woman  ez  only  wuz  wild 


26  SILVER  SHIMMER. 

To  run  away  fro'  the  thoughts 

O'  the  times  when  she  wuz  a  child, 
When  I  wuz  doin'  the  same  ? 

We  forgive  the  folly  o'  men; 
Then  why  not  her,  who  went  back  to  the 
right, 

While  men  go  on  in  their  sin  ? — 
Hure  is  the  yeller  curl 

An'  these  are  the  words  she  wrote: 
"  I've  kept  my  word,  and  God 

And  the  angels  have  helped  me  out. 
If  now  I  am  not  so  pure  as 

When  I  was  a  girl,  I  know 
That,  ere  this  letter  you  read, 

I'll  be  purer — be  whiter  than  snow. 
For  shadows  of  earth  are  going 

Down,  and  a  beautiful  light 
Is  showing  my  spirit  up  ! 

God  bless  you!  you  started  me  right!'' 
So,  boys,  be  still,  fur  her  spirit 

Is  near,  an'  thet  is  enough 
To  smooth  the  waves  o'  my  heart 

Thet  usually  run  so  rough  ! 

Rick  Dane  was  done;  and  a  silent  spell 
Over  the  group  a  moment  fell. 


TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN.     27 

Then  an  old  man,  up  to  his  eightieth  year, 
Turned  sharp  on  me,  and  said — /'  Look  here!" 


THE    OLD    MAN  S    STORY. 
UP   THE   MISSOURI. 

You're  one  o'"  them  fellers  the  world  has  give 

The  tipsy  name  uv  a  "  genis  "- 
Whose  eyes  look  up  'neath  the  skirts  o'  the  skies, 

Ez  the  blossoms  and  leaves  which  green  is. 
You're  one  oj  them  fellers  as  never  has  lifted 

A  hand  or  taken  a  stroke  in 
The  world  of  work;  but  only  has  written 

O'  hearts  ez  are  splintered  and  broken. 
You're  one  o'  the  few  ez  God  has  made 

Fur  suthin'  ez  turned  to  a  dreamer — 
Thet  God  has  given  the  glory  'f  a  flag 

Ez  turned  to  only  a  streamer — 
Thet  the  clamorin*  herd,  ez  the  poets  say, 

Has  crowned  your  head  wi'  laurels; 
Yet  never  has  fought  a  lick,  but  writ 

O'  the  unpoetical  quarrels — 
With  heart  ez  a  girl's,  an  touched,  ez  easy 

Ez  to  fall  from  a  tree,  with  pity; 
Too  poor  to  give  to  the  sufferer  anything  more 

Than  a  most  uneatable  ditty — 


28  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

One  o'  them  fellers  ez  in  your  songs 

Uproots  the  biggest  o5  mountains, 
But  then,  ez  to  facts,  don't  lift  the  tiniest  pebbles 

Thet  shines  at  the  edge  o'  the  fountains — 
One  o'  them  rambling  fellers,  I  'spose, 

Thet  hez  some  sort  uv  a  mission 
That's  out  o'  the  reach  o5  the  computation 

O'  "  simple  addition." 

.  This  world  is  real  enough — too  real    for  many  a 
one, 

Who  started  with  good  decision. 
Perhaps  you  fellers  are  here  to  fool  us,  at  times, 

With  a  fanciful  touch  Elysian. 
You're  one  o'  them  fellers  ez  rambles  around 

And  gathers  a  line  from  each  human, 
From  "  the  man  in  the  ditch  "  and  the  only 

Charity-shunned  of  earth,  a  woman 
Low  in  the  dust  o'  sin,  to  the  man  thet  glitters 

In  gold  and  the  jewels  taken 
From  this  same  woman,  on  whom  he  has  rolled 

The  rock  of  a  curse  and  crushed  her  and  left 

her  forsaken. 
You're  one  o'  them  fellers  ez  wanders  around  after 

A  line  on  love  an'  a  salable  story — 


TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN.     29 

To  turn  the  grief  uv  a  brother,  deep  ez  a  heart, 

to  a  song 
To  lengthen  your  tower  uv  glory ! 

Now,  I  am  a  man  of  little  to  say;  the  devil  I  care 

For  the  pettier  woes  thet  worry 
The  greedier  world;  but  my  word's  ez  sure 

Ez  the  sun,  tho'  I  talk  in  a  hurry. 
I  hev  no  lies  of  love — no  flashin'  words 

To  build  a  palace  o'  fiction; 
But  I  hev  the  logs  oj  facts  to  build  a  cabin  o'  truth, 

To  tell  in  a  humble  diction. 
So  shake  your  girlish  tresses  off  o'  yer  face, 

And  1  will  open  this  locket  ! 
And  tell  me  now  ef  a  worthier  eye 

Rolls  in  a  human  socket  ? 
Or  yit  of  the  universe-eye,  the  blue  sky,  is — 

Tossed  in  its  place,  whose  tears  are  started 
By  the  love  o'  God  pervadin'  creation,  an'  even 

The  heart  o'  the  broken-hearted  ? 
On  that  side  is  her,  on  this  is  the  child,  jest  the 
pictur 

OJ  her,  wi'  face  to  the  face  o'  the  mother; 
An'  that  is  the  way  their  faces  stood  that  time 
on  the  bank, 

One  face  and  heart  to  the  other. 


30  SILVER  SHIMMER. 

You  may  laugh  at  the  thought,  your  hair's  the  same 

Ez  the  hair  of  that  three  year  girl's  ; 
But  then  if  yer  heart's  az  pure  an'  ez  wise  as  her's, 

Ye  needn't  be  'shamed  o'  yer  curls. 
Well,  how  them  two  are  gone  from  me  now, 

And  their  faces  are  set  in  a  locket — 
How  two  sweet  souls  went  up,  ez  a  bird,  and  my 
sperits  down 

Ez  the  dyin'  blaze  uv  of  a  rocket, 
Is  this:  'Twas  only  a  step  to  the  bank,  an'  the 
snows 

Had  started  a  terrible  freshet, 
For  this  wuz  the  time,  speakin'  ez  men  o'  cattle, 

The  meltin'  snows  o'the  mountains  "flesh  it." 
And  her,  whose  hair  wuz  like  ez  to  yourn,  went 
down  to 

The  edge,  and  set  to  a  lookin'  under 
And  thinkin'  them  dreamy  things,  ez  you  poets! 

I  see  now  thet  was  a  blunder 
To  let  her  go  thar;  her  ma  saw  then,  and  called; 

But  her  call  wuz  lost  in  the  thunder 
Uv  muddy  Missouri  ! — she  shot 

Like  the  flash  uv  an  eye,  and  under 
Her  arms  she  gathered  the  child  ;  and,  jest  as 
she  turned 

So  I  see  the  glow  o'  their  faces, 


TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN.    .        31 

And  our  hearts  dumb  up  to  the  highest  limb,  an' 
^  a  shout 

O'  rejoicin'  mixed  in  wi'  the  roar  o'  the  masses, 
The  water-beast  butted  his  turbulent  horns 

Mad  into  the  bank — so  my  darlings 
Went  down  wi'  the  sand,  an  out  uv  my  reach, 

With  a  cry,  ez  the  cry  uv  the  starling's — 
(It's  a  story  the  mother  related   my  child  of  a 

starling 

Ez  cried  with  a  tremble  o'  pity, 
"  I  can't  get  out  ! "  an*  this  is  the  cause  o'  my 

figur. 
It  happened  somewhar  in  a  city.) 

So  you  see  why  I  tuk  my  locket  and  went  fro, 
home  ; 

For  how  cud  I  stay  in  a  dwellin' 
Where  tongues  o'  fire  and  cloven  wuz  set  on  all 

That  I  see,  a  burnin'  anj  tellin' 
O'  what  wuz  no  more — an'  tellin'  o'  slidin'  banks, 

Jest  down  beside  o'  the  thicket, 
Where,  'stead  o'  the  voices  o'  two,   is  only  the 
single  <• 

Trill  uv  a  hermit  cricket  ! 

One  long  breath  and  a  single  glance 
From  each  o'  the  curious  audience  ; 


32  SILVER  SHIMMER. 

Then  a  little  silence — a  sad  suspense, 

When  the  lawyer  suddenly  broke  the  trance  : 

THE  OLD  LAWYER'S  STORY. 

Them  times,  when  I  wuz  a  young  man, 

Warn't  ez  times  is  now. 
We  studied  our  law  from  nature, 

And  only  studied  ez  how 
This  un  was  guilty,  or  that  un, 

And  not  how  to  pick  out  a  flaw 
With  technical  words,  or  suthin', 

And  spile  the  justice  o'  law. 
Thar  wuzn't  no  need  uv  a  scholar, 

Or  a  head  crammed  full  o'  the  books 
Thet  lawyers  of  cities  were  usin', 

But  jest  to  know  uv  the  crooks 
Thet  ort  to  be  straightened,  to  show 

The  ekety  into  the  case — 
And  the  best  way  o'  knowin'  wi'  us  wuz 

To  look  at  the  criminal's  face. 
Them  wuz  the  times  when  ruffins 

Done  the  most  o'  the  "  biz." 
An'  alTthe  lawyers  I  knowed  uv 

Waz  them  ez  pled  wi'  the  whizz 
O'  bullets  an'  sich,  an'  so 

I  warn't  but  little  use — 


TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN.     33 

O'  course  I  done  my  levelest 

To  gabble  agin  abuse. 
But  then  I  used  my  judgment 

Of  when,  an'  how,  an'  whar, 
And  didn't  risk  my  life 

On  a  pint  o'  law  too  far. 
Ef  ever  a  place  on  arth 

Could  hev  a  'proprit  name, 
That  could  hev  "  necessity," 

Which  an'  it  wuz  the  same  ; 
Fur  it  knbwed  no  law,  exceptin' 

The  little  I  knowed — you  bet 
I  knowed  I  better  keep  low — 

I  wuz  lawyer  enough  fur  that 

In  the  little  town — no  matter 

What  the  name  o'  the  place  is — 
The  streets  was  full  uv  a  sea 

Uv  rough  up-lookin'  faces  ; 
An',  (in  the  middle  o'  all  this 

Tide  o'  tanny  grins, 
An'  eyes  ez  deep  as  wells 

An'  dim  wi'  the  dust  o'  sins; 
An'  beards  ez  grizzled  ez  law  books, 

Tossed  up  wi'  the  sea,  and  down 
Over  the  lawless  bosoms 
3 


34  SILVER  SHIMMER. 

An'  under  the  foams  o'  frown) 
Thar  ther  wuz  one  face  'o  beauty, 

Like  a  drop  o'  melted  gold 
Afloat  in  a  sea  o'  brass. 

Then  I  wuzn't  quite  so  old; 
An'  it  set  me  hard  a-thinkin', 

What  in  the  course  o'  life 
Hez  throwed  this  orange  o'  beauty 

Into  the  mire  ?     What  knife 
Haz  stolen  into  the  garden 

And  cut  her  off  o'  the  tree 
And  throwed  her  over  the  wralls 

Into  this  muddy  sea  ?" 
1  wuz  younger  then  than  now, 

I  would  hev  the  court  to  know, 
An'  I  wuz  a  jedge  o'  beauty, 

Ez  well  ez  a  jedge  o'  law — 
Fz  a  jedge  o'  human  natur, 

I  beg  yer  leave  to  say, 
An'  I  saw  in  a  minit,  thet,  though 

Her  heart  hed  a  tetch  o'  gray, 
I  could  make  it  plain  to  a  jury 

Thet  it  wazn't  black  wi'  sin — 
Thet  thar  wuz  a  question  of  whether 

The  devil  or  God  would  win. 
Thinks  I,  in  a  minit  more, 


TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN.     35 

Ef  Christ  forgiv  the  thief 
And  pardoned  the  fallen  woman, 

I'm  right  in  my  belief, 
There's  a  chance  o'  savin5  her. 

So  I  wedged  through  the  surly  crowd, 
Till  I  teched  the  scarlet  woman—- 
An' my  heart  it  beat  aloud, 
For  fear  I  'uz  makin'  a  blunder; 

But  I  spoke  in  a  kindly  way; 
An'  ez  quick  ez  the  snap  uv  a  trigger 

She  turned;  an'  a'  little  spray 
O'  blushes  flew  up  her  face, 

An'  a  glance  o'  mystery 
Come  out  o'  the  fine  red  ground  work 

Thro'  the  jewel  uv  her  eye. 
I  mentioned  about  a  sister 

Ez  purty  ez  even  her, 
And  how  'twould  V  broke  my  heart 

To  see  her  whar  she  were; 
An'  I  tol'  uv  another  girl 

She  set  me  a-thinkin'  uv — 
An'  how  'twould  'a'  driv  me  mad 

To  'a'  seen  her  a  soiled  dove. 
Fur  a  minit  the  glance  in  her  eye, 

Ez  a  shiny  piece  o'  gold, 
Dropped  back  in  her  rily  soul — 


36  SILVER  SHIMMER. 

An  then  come  out  more  bold  I 
Then,  ez  we  walked  away, 

She  lowered  her  head  a  bit, 
An'  I  saw  her  brow  grow  set, 

And  her  bosom  lift,  an'  a  grit 
Uv  her  teeth,  ez  went  like  a  chill 

Over  my  mind;  and  she  said: 
"  Over  the  eastern  hills — 

A  pity  that  I'm  not  dead  ! — 
And  up  in  the  little  school 

On  the  side  o'  the  olden  hill, 
I  stood  at  the  head  o'  my  class, 

And  my  little  ship  on  the  rill 
Was  first  o'  the  little  fleet 

Time  bore  me  away  to  school, 
Out  o'  the  love  o'  home, 

And  into  the  chill  o'  rule: 
And  all  o'  the  lore  o'  books, 

And  all  o'  the  polished  ways 
That  money  could  buy  were  mine. 

But,  oh!  in  the  flow  of  days 
And  out  o'  the  love  o'  home, 

And  out  os  the  love  of  all, 
I  caught  at  the  eye  of  a  passing  one, 

And  his  voice  began  to  call. 
A  love  sprang  up  in  my  desert, 


TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN.     37 

And  stolen  interviews; 
And  so,  as  my  love  'gan  gaining, 

My  fears  began  to  lose. 
Ah !  I  was  too  young  to  know 

That  so  much  belonged  to  me, 
And  to  know  that  a  thief  would  trouble — 

Well,  here  I  am — you  see  J" 

And  so  we  parted.     I  watched 

To  see  whar  the  woman  went, 
Fur  the  roughened  veil  that  covered 

My  sympathies  wuz  rent. 
And  soon,  ez  I  passed  the  street, 

In  a  thoughtful  sort  o'  streak, 
I  saw  her  look  out  uv  a  window, 

And  a  tear  crep'  down  her  cheek. 
Thet  night,  ez  the  moon  come  up, 

I  stole  from  the  noisy  bar 
To  the  shade  uv  a  vacant  dwelling 

Thet  slept  beneath  a  star — 
Leaned  thar  in  sight  o'  the  window, 

Thet  her  tear  hed  glistened  through; 
An'  the  sky  waz  over-speckled 

With  stars,  an'  over  blue. 
An'  the  moon  shone  in  her  window, 

The  only  light  wuz  thar, 


38  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

Exceptin*  Mars  uv  a  blood -red, 

Ez  tho'  *twuz  a  symbol  star 
Shining  into  her  room, 

Ez  a  symbol  uv  her  wo. 
The  other  stars  wuz  so  lofty 

And  her  life  wuz  down  so  low 
Thet  they  couldn't  reach  the  woman; 

An'  so,  ez  I  sed,  red  Mars 
Wuz  glimmerin'  thro'  the  glasses, 

And  that  wuz  all  uv  her  stars. 
Then  a  broken-hearted  voice 

Come  out  on  the  air  to  me: 
"  God,  give  me  a  broken  spirit  ! 

God  give  me  the  will  o'  Thee !  " 
The  red-lit  Mars,  ez  an  eye 

Weepin*  tears  o*  blood,  gleamed 
Silently  over  her  fingers, 

And  the  moon  above  3em  beamed 
Whiter  than  if  foretelling 

Uv  marble  above  her  head. 
I  heard  her  pray  repentance 

Fur  "  a  pity  that  I'm  not  dead  !  " 
Her  head  bowed  in  the  shadow,. 

And  then,  as  a  ghost  uv  love, 
It  rose  in  the  niarbly  moonlight, 

Ez  her  hopes  went  down  or  above — 


TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN.     39 

Rose  on  the  marbly  moonlight, 

Jest  ez  her  spirit  fought 
The  dark  way  oj  livin'  she  oughtn't, 

Then  the  light  way  o'  livin'  she  ought. 
Then  again  the  broken  voice 

Come  out  on  the  air  to  me: 
"  God,  give  me  a  broken  spirit  ! 

God,  give  me  the  will  o'  Thee  ! 
But,  Jesus,  thou  knowest  the  stain 

That  covers  the  all  I  am; 
And  the  world  will  not  forget  it, 

Though  my  soul  grow  sweet  as  balm. 
Thou  knowest  the  pure  in  spirit, 

But  the  world  is  not  so  wise — 
To  the  wayward  their  words  are  mercy 

Not  till  the  wayward  dies ! 
And,  oh!  could  the  will  o'  Thee 

Have  it  that  I  should  go 
Out  o'  the  world  o'  hisses, 

Let  it  be  so !  for,  oh  ! 
Mine  is  so  wayward  a  heart 

It  wanders  away  from  Thee ! " 

Then  it  seemed  to  me,  as  I  listened, 
There  was  suthin'  that  I  could  see 
Like  a  fluttering  spirit  flash 


40  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

Out  thro'  the  window  light, 
And  then,  like  a  fleeing  comet, 

Go  off  in  the  silent  night. 
Mebbe  'twuz  only  a  fancy, 

Or  the  flash  o'  my  falling  tear, 
But  I  b'lieve  'twaz  the  soul  o'  the  woman 

Leaving  her  fallen  sphere; 
For  she  never  went  out  o'  her  room, 

And  she  never  arose  from  her  kneeling, 
Till  we  lifted  her  into  a  coffin, 

While  rough  eyes  rilled  with  feeling. 


The  ranchman  rose,  and  began  to  pace, 
As  a  thought  danced  over  his  grizzled  face, 
And  said,  with  much  more  force  than  grace: 


THE    RANCHER  S    STORY. 

Wall,  an'  I'll  say  my  say,  fur  the  reason  why 

That  it  is  my  turn,  it  is,  an'  I 
Must  say  mine  afore  ol'  Haller  'ill  tell — 

And  thet  is  the  reason  fur  why, 
An'  not  ez  that  I  am  any  yer  swell, 
A  takin'  a  sorryful  tale-tellin'  spell. 


TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN.     41 

Wall,  to  be  short,  then,  it  wuz  a  ranch; 

An'  ranches  they  warent  ez  thick 
Them  times  ez  now  they  be.     'Twas  down  on  a 

branch 
O'  the  Brazos — you've  been   on  the  very  spot, 

Rick— 

And  the  rancher  he  waren't  so  wealthy  ez  I — 
The  one  I'm  a  speakin'  uv — this  uz  the  reason 

fur  why: 

He  wuz  suthin'  o'  polish,  or  suthin' 

Uv  sich  like  a  word  that  book-men  say,  ez  I've 

heerd. 
There  waren't  no    book,  or  no  language — no 

nuthin' 

That  he  didn't  know  uv;  so  ez  thet  he  appeared 
Ez  sharp  as  the  lightnin',  an'  double  geared. 
They  sed  that  he  "  broke"  in  a  queer  kind  o'  way, 
Once  back  in  the  east,  an'  atween  a  night  an'  a 

day, 

Hed  to  start  up,  wi'  a  patterin'  heart,  an'  fly — 
So  he's  poorer  'an  me,  thet's  the  reason  fur  why. 

One  thing  thet  be  sure,  thar  wuz,  ez  I'd  vote, 
The  ungodliest  queer-like  tossin'  an  start 

Uv  his  rascalish  eye  ;  an'  I'd  put  up  my  coat, 
Thar  wuz  suthin'  stept  heavy  inside  on  his  heart 


42  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

In  the   tenderest   places — hut  thet's  neither   you 

nor  I! 

Fur  it's    out   o'  the  subjic',  an'  thet's  the    reason 
fur  why. 

He  wuz  poorer,  an'  yet  he  wuz  richer  ez  me; 
Leastwise  none  o'   us  ranchers  cud    buy   the 

chap  out. 
For  he  had  one  lump  o'  treasure,  you  see, — 

A  treasure,  you  see,  ez  would  put  to  the  rout 
Yer  millions  uv  gold  an'  ranches;  and  thet 
Wuz  a  bright  little  girl;  an',  you  bet, 
Thar  warent  no  thing — 'cept  God — cud  get 
Thet  gay   leetle  blossom,  an'  thar  warn't  no  use 

fur  to  try — 

An'  so   he  wuz  richer   ez   me;  thet's  the  reason 
fur  why. 

God  kept  her  a-livin'  a  time,  ez  mebbe  he  might 

Meller  the  hard  man's  heart,  perhaps. 
But  God  wuzn't  going  to  let  her  to  stay 
Till  she  grew  so  old  ez  to  hev  the  same  hard 

way. 
So,  when  the  years  begin  to  grow  to  thet  pint,  a 

blight 
Gets  up  an'  out  o'  the  Brazos,  an'  taps 


TALES  OF  A  BORDER  TAVERN.     43 

Et  the  rancher's  door;  an'  the  darlin'  she  let's  it 

in. 

So  it  eats  et  this  jew'l  o'  this  man  o'  sin 
Till   she  grows  ez  slim   an'  thin-limbed    ez  a 

pin — 

Till  she  bended  down,  ez  a  withery  blossom  stem, 

An'  her  face  dipped  down  i'  the  dust  o'  the  earth, 

Ez  the  flower  on  the  tip  o'  thetstem,  the  same! 

So  thar  another  burden  o'  dirt  wuz  throwed  on 

his  box  o'  mirth. 

Then  he  dirted  his  knees  wi'  the  dust  thet  wuz 

coverin'  her; 

An'  he  used  to  say:  "O  the  clouds  hang  low! 
And  my  life's  as  a  wall,  and  the  clouds  be  big  wi' 

myrrh, 

And  they  break  on  my  life,  as  a  wall;  and  so 

They  run  so  low  they  keep  a  breaking,  and  oh! 

Baptizing  it  over  wi'  myrrh  as  bitter  as  woe  !'* 

Then  he  stole  her  up,  an'  gathered  her  up  an* 
burned 

His  jew'l  to  ashes — they  say — an'  urned 

The  same!  Then,  ez  a  ghost,  he  vanished  away. 

Now,  I  reckon  he's  somwhar  bearin'  his  urn  to- 
day!— 


44  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

With  thet  strange  kind  uv  a-tossin'  about  uv  his 

eye, 
Which  no  one  knows  the  terrible  reason  fur  why. 


A  tale  is  but  breath, 

Yet  life  is  a  tale 
Borne  over/  by  Death, 

And  told  in  a  wail, 
Or  in  sweetness,  hereafter. 

Our  lives  are  but  tales 

Told  in  accents  of  pathos 
Of  loves  under  veils — 

Told  in  burnings  of  passion, 
In  tempests  of  wails, 

In  flashes  of  wit, 
In  songs,  in  curses — 

In  all,  every  whit, 
Lives  are  tales! 


PILGRIM  S    PROGRESS.  45 


PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS. 

[Being  the  biography  of  a  modern  pilgrim  in  verse.] 
CANTO   ONE. 

|  OW  down  upon  the  Mississippi  river, 
Where  balminess  was  king  the  most  o' 

year, 
Where's  more  of  heat  and  more  of  languid  fever 

Than  chilly  days  and  tingling  toe  and  ear, 
Where's  less  of  bleeding  lungs  than  bile  upon  the 

liver — 

Here,  in  a  little  town — its  name  shall  not  ap- 
pear— 

There  dwelt  a  lowly  family  of  two, 
Wherein,  one  morning,  there  was  some  ado. 

One  morning  in  the  balmy  month  of  June, 
(I  said  before  it  was  not  balmy  all  the  year), 

There  was  a  bustle  in  the  little  town; 
And  matrons  to  and  fro  began  to  steer, 

And,  meeting  at  the  corners,  whisper  undertone 
A  secret  each  into  another's  ear — 


46  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

But  whisper  confidentially,  of  course — 
What  was  it  ?  marriage,  cradle,  or  a  hearse  ? 

The  saucy  boys  quit  kicking  up  their  heels, 
Each  hangs  about  the  corner  for  a  chance 

To  steal  behind  some  matron,  as  she  deals 
This  secret  to  a  friend,  with  cautious  glance — 

Forgets  to  cry  for  toys,  forgets  his  meals, 

Hands  punched  into  the  pockets  of  his  pants — 

Forgets  all,  but  his  big  desire  to  hear 

The  news  that's  setting  all  the  town  on  ear. 

The  fact  is  this — to  keep  the  ball  in  motion 
That  set  the  town  in  such  a  fermentation, 

And  proved  so  bring-the-dead-to-life  a  potion- 
The  fact  is  this- -confuse  my  trepidation, 

I  scarce  can  say  it!  may  be  its  a  notion, 
But  then  a  child  new-born  into  temptation 

I  hate  to  think,  or  speak  of.     But  the  fact 

Is  Pilgrim's  born,  was  born,  to  be  exact. 

Hence    those    mysterious,    knowing   words   and 

winks 

Of  sly-tongued  advocates  of  generation; 
And  clamorous  boys  with  their  "by  Georges"  and 

"by  Jinks"— 
One  gossip  finally  told  all  creation, 


PILGRIM  S    PROGRESS.  47 

So  I,  at  length,  got  hold  one  of  the  links 

And  dragged  up  all  the  chain — hence  this  inva- 
sion 

Of  household  rights — in  other  words,  this  story; 
For  which  I'm  paid  in  criticism,  not  glory. 

O,  for  the  innocence  of  heart  I  knew, 

When,  standing  by  my  mother's  side,  I   gazed 

On  Pilgrim,  wondering  at  the  great  ado 
Over  so  small  a  thing,  and  stood  amazed 

At  all  they  said  of  good  and  beautiful  and  true 
And    great    accomplishments   that   would   be 
blazed 

Around  the  world  connected  with  his  name! 

Ah !  /.surely,  thought  I,  he  is  born  to  fame ! 

That's  nothing  new  or  rare;  for  scores  or  more 
Are  born  to  fame  in  every  rushing  year, 

But  bred,  alas!  upon  another  score — 
Born  in  the  tumult  of  expectant  cheer, 

But  bred  to  disappointment — to  deplore 
Their  loss  of  innocence  and  all  that's  dear. 

Biographies  begin  with  "  born — -and  bred," 

As  though  beyond  some  things  remained  unsaid 

Of  great  importance — something  grand,  sublime, 
Before  we  write  the  final  sentence — Dead! 


48  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

'T would  save  a  deal  of  trouble  and  of  time 
To  start  with  born  and  dead,  instead 

Of  born  and  bred ;  for  life  is  like  a  rhyme, 
Over  a  very  great  expanse  is  spread, 

Yet  might  be  written  in  a  single  line — 

The  same  thing  o'er  and  o'er  like  a  repine. 

Well,  then,  to  hasten  on  the  hero,  I 

Will  pass  by  twelve  or  sixteen  years  or  so; 
P'or  babies  only  eat,  and  laugh,  and  cry, 

And  boys  are  saucy,  all  alike,  you  know; 
Hence,  as  I  said,  I  pass  those  two  times  by, 

And  introduce  the  hero  proper — So  ' 
I  take  him  up  again,  as  in  the  verses 

That  follow  this,  wherein  I  speak  of  hearses. 

God!  do  I  hear,  then,  yonder  damned  bell 
Pour  groans  for  dead  from  out  its  brazen  lips  ? 

Accursed  crown!     I  reel  beneath  thy  knell, 
Which  strikes  my  heart  down  like  a  sledge, 
and  rips 

A  half- well  wound  !     No  sound  resounds  so  fell 
As  bell-knolls  ;  for  their  tolling  never  drips 

Upon  my  mind  like  music,  since  the  time — 

No  matter — that  was  in  another  clime  ! 

I  see  a  box  of  varnished  ebony, 

Lined  with  fine  silk  and  velvet,  white  as  purity— 


PILGRIM  S    PROGRESS.  49 

With  glinting  silver  studs  ;  and  hinged,  I  see, 
With  gleamy  gold.     How  fair!     Yet  not  se- 
curity 
Against  the  pain  of  the  bereft,  who  cry 

Around  the  dead  ;    nor  yet   against   the    ob- 
scurity 

That  waits  the  favored  sleeper;  for  to  sleep 
The  sleep  is  better  than  to  live  to  weep, 

And  follow  out  the  one  within  the  coffin. 

But  let  me  tell  you  who  it  is  that's  dead, 
For  fear  you  think  it's  Pilgrim — still  more  often 

The  world  would  not  be  bothering  its  head  , 
About  who  died,  but  turn  and  go  to  laughin' 

Before  the  hearse  has  wheeled  a  rod,  instead 
Of  asking,  with  a  sad  face  and  a  serious, 
Who  now  has  gone  to  try  the  dread  mysterious? 

A  person's  thoughts  at  best  are  like  wild  cattle; 

They  always  come  in  droves  and  out  of  order — 
Not  like  a  well-drilled  army  going  to  battle, 

More  like  the  bison  on  the  Kansan  border. 
So  we   must  catch  them  while  we  can.     What 

rattle 

They  make  stampeding  on  the  fertile  plain 
Within  a  bold  and  mighty  genius'  brain  ! 
4 


50  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

Because  of  this  unsteady  rushing  in 

Of  incoherent  droves  of  thought,  you  see, 

I  wander  from  the  straightest,  strictest  line 
Of  this  biography.     But  let  me  be 

Permitted  here  to  say,  as  said  before  herein, 
Pilgrim  "grew  up,"  as  people  say.     To  agree 

Was  not  his  father's  and  the  Pilgrim's  mode  of 
action — 

His  mother,  though,  prevented  serious  faction. 

It  was  not  Pilgrim  who  was  dead  ;  but,  what 
Is  worse,  it  was  his  mother.     Even  those 

Who  think  the  very  most  of  life  would  not 
Dissent  from  this  opinion  far,  God  knows. 

She  was  a  noble  mother,  all  folks  thought — 
As  for  his  father,  judging  from  his  nose, 

He  was  not  quite  so  noble;  so,  you  see, 

Poor  Pilgrim's  show — but  I  must  go  to  tea ! 

Well,  I  have  been  to  tea,  and  drunk  it  too, 

Although  I  think  it  isn't  healthy  very; 
And  coffee  hurts  the  nerves,  I  always  knew, 

Yet,  like  a  toper,  save  not  quite  so  merry, 
I  always  drink  them  both,  and  so  do  you. 

I  know  Fd  better  be  a  toper  cheery 
Than  growling  with  dyspeptic  melancholy 

Brought  on  by  swilling  tea  and  coffee,  Ollie! 


PILGRIMS    PROGRESS.  51 

I  beg  your  pardon,  I  did  not  intend 

The  world  should  know  that  you  are  standing 

here, 
And  that  your  kisses,  on  my  forehead,  send 

A  rush  of  inspiration  through — no  matter  where, 
But  I  suppose  the  heart,  tho'  some  would  say  the 
mind. 

Fair  Ollie,  now  I  promise,  yea  I  swear 
I'll  never  use  your  name  again  in  verse; 
So  kiss  my  lips  forgiveness — here's  my  purse! 

Go,  then,  and  purchase  anything  you  please — 
(Cash  keeps  the  most  of  women  out  of  pets. 

It  will,  if  anything  on  earth,  appease 

A  displeased  woman.     Strange  that  man  for- 
gets (?) 

This  fact  so  often.     Though  she  is  a  tease, 

She's  sweet.     Who   bets   by    her  wins  all  his 
bets.) 

Sweet  Ol — but  then  I  swore  that,  in  my  verse, 

I'd  name  thee  not,  for  better  or  for  worse. 

So  goes  it;  few  perhaps  are  happier,  brighter 
Than  when  first  wed — But  what  has  that  to  do 

With  Pilgrim  ?  (or  with  me  ?  you  ask.     Ah !  I'm 

a  writer; 
And  authors'  private  lives  are  theirs,  yoirknow.) 


52  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

Poor  Pilgrim's  show,  (I  started  out  to  cite,  or 

I  rather  'gan  to  write,  sometime  ago, 
When  I  was  called  to  tea,)  was  rather  slim 
For  happy  home.     His  eyes  were  all  a-swim 

With  great  big  tears;  and  many  genuine  snuffles 
Were  smothered  in  his  handkerchief,  the  while 

A  hand,  as  thoughtless  as  the  shovel,  shuffles 
The  heavy,  thumping  clay  down,  with  a  will, 

Upon  the  stupid  dead.     Ah  !  how  it  ruffles 
The  Tahoe  of  his  heart,  so  crystal  still! 

And  how  it  roils  the  clear,  with  every  clod 

That  falls  upon  his  heart  and  dead,  O  God  I 

Tis  sad  to  see  the  last  leaves  fall  and  float 
Off  on  the  chilly  stream  to  some  broad  bay 

To  mingle  with  the  drift  of  many  a  boat, 
Shattered  and  tossing  helpless  night  and  day 

Upon  its  top-pitched  swell;  'tis  sad  to  note 
The  fade  of  twilight;  it  is  sad  to  lay 

The  last  sunbeam  upon  the  couch  of  night 

And  know  that,  ere  it  wakes,  some  soul   takes 
flight; 

'Tis  sad  to  see  the  last  brown,  deadened  blade 
Of  grass  buried  beneath  the  first  white  snow 
Of  winter;  'tis  sad  to  hear,  across  the  glade, 


PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS.  53 

The  mellow  song  of  some  lone  bird,  and  know 
That,  when  its  plaintive,  dying  notes  shall  fade 

To  silence,  'tis  the  last;  'tis  sadder,  though, 
To  follow  out  the  best  friend — as  a  wave, 
A  body,  dead,  afloat — to  a  silent  grave  ! 

His  was  a  massive  mind;  and  it  was  proud. 

Ill  could  he  brook  the  horrid  incubus 
Of  drunken  tyranny.     He  had  not  bowed, 

Before  his  mother's  death,  to  a  "  drunken  cuss," 
And  would  not  now!     Hard  words,  yet  thus  he 
vowed. 

Oh  !  "  by  the  dogs  !"  how  I  despise  a  muss! 
So  I  will  pass  it  by,  and  give  the  issue: 
He  ran  away!/     Poor   Pilgrim,    Heaven    bless 
you  ! 

Come  kiss   me,  O  sweet,  Ol (no,    spare   her 

name!) 

By  this  I  mean  I  want  new  inspiration : 
For  now  I  sing  of  love.     Tis  luck  for  fame 

That  he  was  thrust,  by  such  "  concatenation 
Of  fortuitous  circumstances/'  where  he  came 

To  meet  fair  Lilie.     O  sweet  expectation, 
Buzz,  as  a  humming  bird,  about  and  utter 
Your  honeyed  promises  and  smile  and  flutter! 


54  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

Oh!  she  was  loveliness  itself,  fair  Lilie, 

And  purer  than  a  white-lipped  lily's  flower, 

And  not,  like  most  of  girls  at  sixteen,  silly. 
Her  great  eyes  beggar  all  descriptive  power. 

And  they  had  looked  on  timid  Pilgrim,  till  he 
Seemed  floating  on  their  violet  tide.     No  hour 

Was  long,  when  she  was  with  him;  when  away 

A  minute  seemed  a  lonesome,  lingering  day. 

But  it  would  take  a  most  stupendous  volume 
To  write  up  all  the  course  of  this  true  love — 

How  it  did  blind  their  prudence,  how  enthrall 

them. 
I'll  not  say  what  a  futile  fancy  wove 

Around  them;  or  say  what  a  flashing  column 
Of  crumbling  sweets,  a-gilt  with  fickle  love, 

They  built  by  moonlight — and  they  never  thought 

That  what  seems  "  is"  turns  out  more   oft   "  is 
not." 

I'll  not  here  say  how,  when  they  ventur'd  near 
Each  other,  (as  two  little  crystal  lakes, 

The  size  of  silver  dollars,  do  appear 

To  rush  together  for  each  others'  sakes,) — 

I'll    not   say    how   they   then    both    whispered, 

"Dear!" 
Then  melted  in  each  others  arms  and — aches  I — 


PILGRIMS    PROGRESS.  55 

I'll  stop  and  stuff  this  into  my  portmanteau, 
And  after  dinner  finish  up  the  canto. 

For  now  I'm  hunting  food,  and  hunting  rest. 

And  who  could  rest  and  write  of  early  love  ? 
For,  as  I  write,  some  half-unwelcome  guest 

Comes  peering  o'er  the  page,  mild  as  a  dove, 
And  yet  it  stirreth  something  in  my  breast 

To  painfulest  convulsions,  which  do  move 
The  deepest  soul,  and  lift  the  lake  of  tears 
Until  it  overfloods  the  bank  of  years. 

My  own  unrest  is  sad  enough  regret; 

And  yet,  sweet  Nameless  —  I  can  better  bear 
My  flow  of  tears  than  that  the  violet 

Be  faded  from  thine  eyes.     O  dregs  of  myrrh! 
But  then  I  cannot  write  these  things.     They  set 

My  hand  a-tremble,  and  'the  white  page  blur. 
O  sweet,  pure,  patient  love,  I  feel  thy  breast 
Throb  through  the  years  to  mine,  unrest!  unrest! 

O,  I  would  give  rny  gold,  (but  have  I  much  ? 

And  would  I  be  a  poet  if  I  had  ?) 
Would  give  all  my  ambition,  (and  of  such 

Have  I  enough  to  curse  me,  as  'tis  said  ?)  — 
Give  —  but  there  is  no  word  can  touch 

My  passion  for  a  rest  !  Oh,  could  I  tread 


OF  THB 

UNIVERSITY 


56  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

Where  once  I  trod,  I  know  I  would  not  be 
Where  now  I  am,  but  be  at  rest  with  thee  ! 


I  promised  I  would  tell  you  all  about 
Poor  Pilgrim's  love  affair  with  rosy  Lilie, 

(Or  rather  lily  Lilie;  but  it's  out, 
So  let  it  go  as  written,  sound  or  silly,)  — 

His  love  for  her  was  certainly  devout. 

He  ought  to  marry  her  —  the  rub  is,  "will  he  ?" 

I  think  he  either  will  not  or  he  will; 

But  this,  of  course,  remains  a  mystery  still. 

The  deepness  of  their  love  I  could  not  write. 

The  warmness  of  their  love  would  melt  a  heart. 
The  sweetness  of  their  love  was  such  delight, 

Twas  not  describable  by  any  art. 
'Twas   warm,   o'erpowering,  passionate,  full    by 
night, 

By  day,  confiding,  tender  —  Not  a  part 
Of  all   but  what  was  both.     Love's  power  was 

regal. 
Twas  fondly  intimate  —  and  yet  was  legal. 

So  argued  they,  at  least,  through  all  the  Spring 
And  Summer  and  the  Autumn  days.     But  now 


PILGRIM  S    PROGRESS.  57 

The  Winter  comes  and  spreads  his  frosty  wing; 

And  frost,  that  stings  like  fire,  is  on  each  plow 
Of  steely  blue;  and  scintillations  fling 

From  off  the  mold  boards  up  to  stars  that  throw 
Their  scintillations  from  the  gleamy  sky, 
The  moldboard  of  the  universe,  on  high. 

Howl   on,  ye    hideous  winds!    ye   swift-winged 
snows, 

That  strike  and  smart  like  icy  hornets'  stings, 
Beat!  beat!  and  mock  ye  Nature's  dying  throes  ! 

Howl!  beat!     O  desolating,  cruel  things! 
Little  ye  dream,  and  less  ye  care,  God  knows, 

The  ruin  ye  are  working!     O  for  wings 
Of  mercy,  that  I  might  o'erspread  the  world 
And  shield  it  from  this  tempest  heaven-hurled! 

Alas!  and  there's  a  special  work  of  ruin 

This  cold  of  winter  wrought;  for  'tis  agreed 
That  balmy  climes  make  better  love,  and  few  in 

The  cold  of  winter  love  so  warmly,  need 
I  mention  ?  Snow-storms  block  the  bliss  o'  wooin' . 

For  man,  or  maid  is  so  much  like  a  weed, 
Affected  deeply  by  the  state  of  weather—- 
And Love's  no  stabler  than  a  floating  feather. 

To  make  it  short,  as  sad  as  it  may  be, 

The  fountain  of  poor  Pilgrim's  love  froze  over, 


58  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

Or  seemed  to  freeze,  more  true;  and  so,  you  see, 
He  was  so  fearful  and  so  changed  a  lover 

He  broke  her  heart  by  coolness;  and,  for  she 
Had  given  all  to  him.     O  God  above  her! 

How  could  he  ravish  all  she  had  to  prize, 

And  then,  poor  girl,  neglect  her,  while  she  dies  ? 

Man  never  loves  with  half  the  love  of  woman. 

His  purest  love  is  more  than  half  but  passion. 
The  chastest  love  of  the  most  pure  and  true  man 

Is  not  so  passionless,  in  any  fashion, 
As  woman's  worst.     It  surely  is  not  human 

That   lusty  men   should  come  and  lay  their 

trash  on 

The  shrine  of  woman's  love,  then  steal  her  trust 
And  flee  and  leave  her  but  the  scars  of  lust. 

'Tis  strange  how  balmy  winds  may  bend  young 

trees; 
Stranger    how    kind   young   lovers'    kindness 

blows 
And  bends  their  action  by  its  loving  breeze, 

Till  what  they  plant  for  joys  grow  knotted  woes ! 
The  Pilgrim  gets  bewildered,  so  he  flees 

And  leaves  her — turns  her  flowery  spring  to 
snows. 


PILGRIM  S    PROGRESS.  59 

All  else  she  bore,  but  this  is  Hell — if  this 
She  plunge  away  from,  would  she  do  amiss  ? 

See  Lilie  yonder,  with  so  many  scars 

Of  soul,  and  marks  without  of  inner  pain — 

So  young,  and  yet,  in  those  few  days  of  wars, 
She  suffered  twenty  years!  She  cried,  in  vain, 

Out  in  the  woe  and  waste  of  air.     The  stars 
Did  quiver  at  her  wail,  and  yet  the  plain 

Died  into  nothing  in  the  ears  of  men — 

And  so  then  has  she  heart  to  cry  again  ? 

She  standeth  quailing  at  the  midnight  shimmer 

That  floats  far  down  upon  the  moaning  river. 
See  what  a  passionate  convulsive  tremor 

Creeps  o'er  her  frame!     She  starts!  a  death- 
cold  shiver 

Of  woes  chills  her  pale  as  the  still  moon's  glim- 
mer! 

She  looks  back  quick — she  leaps — is  still  for- 
ever! 
Blame   not.     Who   knows,   O  woe  -  bewildered 

daughter ! 
Thy  secret,  save  God  and  the  tongueless  water. 

Men  talk  about  committing  suicide, 

But  only  he,  who  stands  and  looks  aghast 


60  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

Into  the  world  beyond,  and  yet  does  hide 

Determination  then  to  quit  the  past — 
Leap  into  the  unknown,  Hell-deep,  dark  tide, 

Knows  what  he  talks  about ;  yet  he's  the  last 
To  mention  of  his  purpose;  so  men  mock 
At  him,  then  fall  upon  the  self-same  rock. 
'Twere  well  to  think  more  deeply  ere  we  talk. 

'Twere  well  to  scan  the  heights  of  mercy  first. 
For  could  we  see  o'erhead  the  swooping  hawk 

We  would  not  blame  the  timid  quail  that  durst 
Dart  swiftly  and  so  headlong  'gainst  a  rock, 

And  thus  meet  death,  rather  than  face  the  worst — 
And  so  familiar  Death  appears  less  dread 
To  some  sad  ones  than  swooping  woe  o'erhead. 

But  why  are  men  fore'er  and  everlasting 

On  suiciding  making  such  a  fuss  ? 
For  every  single  human  found  a-casting 

Himself  from   woe   to   death  (poor  wretched 

cuss  !) 
A  thousand  thoughtless  people  more  are  blasting 

The  vigor  of  their  lives,, killed  by  the  muss 
And  rash  excess  ot/alse,  polluting  pleasure — 
Do  they  not  suicide  in  the  same  measure? 

Great  Jove !  I  look  into  the  glass,  and  see 
My  eyes  stand  outward,  in  a  perfect  stare, 


PILGRIMS    PROGRESS.  6l 

And  pop  half  from  their  sockets!     I  must  flee 
This  subject,  or,  ere  I  am  half  aware, 

Til  find  my  own  throat  cut — so  let  it  be ! 
I'd  care  but  little,  if  I  only  dare  (?) — 

Eheu !  my  very  skin  crawls  with  affright, 

To  think  of  what  I've  dared  to  write  to-night  1 

Ring  !  ring  !  ring  !     O,  horror-tongued  bell  ! 

Fall  on  our  ears  turned  into  woeful  words! 
Ye  people,  winding  in  a  speechless  spell, 

But  thinking  thoughts  more   bitter    than    the 

Lord's, 
Ye  would  consign  her  to  the  deep  of  Hell, 

Who  sleeps  before  you,  innocent  as  the  birds 
That  break  the  sad  uncharitable  still 
By  sinless  songs  of  love  from  every  bill. 

Cold  Pharisaic  man,  who  would  forbid 
Her  purer  erring  soul  a  place  with  ye, 

You  would  have  done  the  same  that  Lilie  did  1 
Young  mother,  buoyant  at  the  boundless  glee 

Thy  first  born  showeth,  even  despite  the  chide 
Its  sterner  father  gives,  how  would  it  be 

Were  it  conceived  and  born  without  a  name  ? 

Sweet  woman,  wouldst  thou  not  have  done  the 
same  ? 


62  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

Warm-hearted  man,  that  only  would  condemn 
Because  your  moral  standard  calls  it  wrong ; 

Had  you  been  she,  you  would  have  done  the  same ! 
•  And  maidens,  gathering  in  a  weeping  throng 

Around  the  wayward  dead,  ye  mourn  »the  shame 
Of  whom,  a  year  ago,  ye  envied  strong — 

Ye  would  have  done  the  same  as  she,  and  are, 

God  knows,  her  most  forgiving  mourners  far! 

I  know,  too  faithful  woman — I  confess 
That,  if  my  very  goodness — all  the  best 

Of  all  God  gave,  with  which  the  world  to  bless, 
Had  led  me  where  thy  love  abounding  breast 

Led  thee,  I  should  not  deem  I  did  amiss 
To  shun  the  train  of  curses,  for  the  rest 

Beyond  the  River — I  would  calmly  leap 

Into  the  flood  and  o'er  me  let  it  sweep ! 

Curse  on!  curse  deep!  curse  well  !  ye  damned 

tongues, 

Your  curses  cannot  reach  beyond  the  grave. 
Damn !  damn  the  innocent,  forget  her  wrongs ! 
Thank  Heaven  !  she  does  not  hear  your  pious 

rave ! 
God  will  restore  her  what  to  her  belongs. 

The   times  may  come  when  you  will  vainly 
crave 


PILGRIM  S    PROGRESS.  63 

What  blessings  God  gives  her.     She   bore  the 

worst 
Here,  there  ye  cursers  may  become  the  cursed  ! 

Well,  well,  there  is  no  need  of  one  man's  bat- 
tling 

The  creeds  of  all  the  world  of  orthodoxies — 
It  were  as  useless  as  the  idle  prattling 

Of  busy  babes;  for  Satan  has  his  proxies 
E'en  'mong  the  moral — aye,  how  many  a  fatling 

Of  Hell  is  clothed  as  priest  —  how  many 

hawks'  eyes 

Look  out  of  doves'  meek  feathers!    Yet — ah  !  yet 
High  Heaven  knows  them  every  one,  I  bet  ! 

Sweet  Lilie,  O !  how  art  thou  bruised  and  crushed ! 
Yet  men  would  stamp  thee  more — well,  let 

them  stamp, 

The  wreck  may  be  transplanted  (when  all's  hushed 
O'er  thee),  where  human  feet  dare  never  tramp, 
And  there  leave  into  life  forever  flushed 

With  love  and  peace   immortal,  when  every 

scamp 
That   cursed   thee   here    may   wail    for  "water! 

water!" 
And  not  find  it,  as  thou  didst,  injured  daughter. 


64  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

And  do  not  too  uncharitably  judge 

Pilgrim  in  this  calamitous  affair. 
Fair  maids,  spare  all  unnecessary  grudge 

Against  unfaithful  him.     Pull  not  the  hair 
Upon  a  head  already  sore — fie,  fudge ! 

He  is  no  worse  than  many  more,  who  bear 
A  better  public  name,  whom  you  let  simper 
"  I  love  you,  dear!"  at  which  you  sigh  and  whim- 
per. 

Think  you  that,  when  he  first  was  photographed 
In  her  soul-curtained  eyes,  he  dared  to  dream 

Of  anything  unkind  ?     And  when  they  laughed 
At  older  warnings,  while  their  faces  beam 

With   fresh  young   love;    and    when  they  over- 
quaffed 

Love,  till  their  hearts,  impassioned,    Oh!  did 
seem 

To  reel  with  very  drunkenness,  until 

It  stole  their  prudence  and  their  sterneivwill; 

And  they  went  staggering  down  a  bank  of  bliss 

And  flowering  beauty,  till  they  fell,  aghast, 
Low  in  the  muddy  stream  and  foul  abyss 

That  bound  such  banks  below  at  last- 
Think  you  he  deemed  their  chaste  and  youthful 
kiss, 


PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS.  65 

They  then  exchanged,  would  ever  be  to  blast 
Her  beauteous  life?  or  dreamed  where  they  were 

going, 
Swift  as  the  wind,  because  of  their  warm  wooing  ? 

O  what  a  world  of  contradictions  this ! 

The  very  motives,  that  would  prompt  a  man 
To  shower  on  others  well-meant  gifts  of  bliss, 

Spread  ruin  on  the  very  road  o'er-run. 
A  cruel  blow  seems  kinder  than  a  kiss. 

Start  to  perform  the  very  best  you  can, 
Your  kindness  seems,  at  last,  to  simply  end 
In  tragedy.     Be  kind,  and  you  offend. 

And  every  pleasant  thing  that  God  has  given 
Seems  but  a  snare  to  tangle  one  in  woe; 

And  every  woe,  by  which  a  man  is  driven, 

Drives  him  where  only  fruits  of  blisses  grow; 

Make  life  a  hell,  and  that  will  win  you  heaven. — 
And  he  that  tastes  of  happiness  below 

May  break  his  fiddle  for  the  time  to  come — 

Make  your  oration  here,  but   there  you  must  be 
dumb. 

God  placed  in  man  the  golden  gift  of  love. 
And  which  would  be  attended  with  the  sweetest 
5 


66  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

Enjoyment  with  which  all  of  earth  could   move 
A  human  heart,  although  'tis  called  the  fleetest. 

Of  false  love  this  is  true — O  land  above  I 
It  surely,  heaven,  is  not  thou  that  meetest 

Such  love  to  mortals  simply  to  enhance 

The  lassitude  that  followeth  the  dance ! 

O  for  a  love  that  would  be  warm  eternal  I 
Unbroken  by  the  coolness  of  a  blast 

And  unembittered  by  that  thing  infernal, 
Propriety,  worst  foe  thou,  loving,  hast! 

Love  that  is  free  indeed  would  be  supernal — 
Aye,  world!  here  lies  the  mystery  at  last; 

That  all  the  blessings  heaven  has  bestowed 

Are  curses  turned  by  customs  of  the  crowd !. 

O.  there  is  bliss  indeed  in  being  wed; 

But  'tis  not  in  the  wedding  of  the  hand, 
Nor  in  the  law  of  weddings,  which  is  read, 

Nor  in  the  wedding  custom  does  demand. 
The  bliss  of  half  the  wedded  ones  is  dead, 

Because  they  are  not  wedded  with  the  band 
That  never  galls — the  wed,  whose  touch  and  kiss, 
At  fifty  years  of  age  is  young  with  bliss. 

The  many  curses  that  some  preachers  claim 
Do  follow  pleasure,  as  a  punishment 


PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS.  67 

Sent  down  from  God,  are  not  at  all  His  blame. 

They  are  alone  the  curses  that  are  sent 
On  hearts  of  innocence,  (here  is  the  shame!) 

By  godless  customs!  'Would  the  veil  were  rent 
From  off  the  truth,  till  day  devour  the  night, 
And  pleasure  would  be;  what  it  should  be,  right ! 

I  do  not  find  the  stiffened  jackets  in 

The  works  of  Christ.     They  are  the   devils' 

work, 
Who  wish  to  turn  all  goodness  into  sin 

And  make  the  gloom  of  sin — its  soulless  irk — 
Appear  as  goodness;  hence  befooled  men, 

Beneath  their  stiffened  jackets,  bear  a  dirk 
Sheathed  in  their  dismal,  devil-given  creeds, 
Which,  when  they  speak,  stabs  truth  until  it  bleeds. 

'Tis  not  because  of  Jesus'  sweet  Christianity; 

But  'tis  because  men  will  pervert  the  truth, 
And  twist  high  Heaven's  sane  into  insanity, 

And  cramp  our  Saviour's  mercy  into  ruth, 
And  would  press  all  the  human  from  humanity, 

And  sprinkle  whiteness  on  the  heads  of  youth. 

0  Jesus!  will  it  ever,  ever  be 

That  men  can  see  the  mercy  thou  canst  see  ? 

1  know  a  life,  the  sweetest  sacrifice, 

But  one,  earth  ever  knew.     O.  she  was  great — 


68  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

Great  by  the  standard  of  most  human  eyes, 
And  greater  in  the  eyes  round  Heaven's  gate. 

Ideal  beauty  blushed,  fell  on  its  knees, 
And  stammered,  as  it  tried  to  emulate 

Her  beauty;  for  it  did  surpass  th'  ideal — 

Her  meek  unbounded  beauty,  yet  was  real. 

And  she  was  born  a  child  of  rarest  song 

And  thoughts  of  mild,  yet  big,  magnificence — 

A  poetess  even  when  she  lay  along 

The   blooming  stream  of  childhood;  and  the 
sense 

Was  riveted  to  hear  her  chastened  tongue 
Pour  forth  her  written  sonnet-eloquence, 

In  her  mostsong-engifted  utterance — • 

The  very  blossoms  listened  in  a  trance ! 

So  even  her  beauty,  most  divinely  gifted, 
Stood  pouting,  envious  of  her  gift  of  mind. 

But,  O,  her  boundless  soul  seemed  ever  lifted 
Beyond  the  reach  of  selfishness — too  kind 

To  have  seen  a  fly  adrift,  and  not  have  drifted 
In  sympathy,  most  superfine-refined, 

Down  with  the  drowning  mote,  to  reach  and  weep 

Till  she  could  lift  the  small  waif  from  the  deep. 

She  grew  to  womanhood.     Financial  crash 
Had  left  her  aged  father  penniless, 


PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS.  69 

And  many  children,  too,  to  bear  the  lash 
Of  penury;  and  ease  withdrew  caress 

They  once  had  known,  with  all  its  happy  flash. 
She  was  the  youngest  in  their  homelessness — 

The  tenderest  of  all,  yet  the  divine 

Within  her  would  not  darken,  but  would  shine. 

She  snatched  the  circumstances  by  the  bit 
And  charioted  her  people  from  despair. 

She  gave  up  good  renown,  that  used  to  flit 
So  beauty-sanctified  before  her,  where 

She  roamed  in  fields  of  poesy  and  wit. 
She  smiled  above  the  under-flowing  tear, 

And  turned  from  beauty,  poetry  and  fame, 

To  lowly  work,  a  sacrifice  for  them. 

A  fast  she  laid  upon  her  soul !     O  what 

A  graveyard  of  the  grandest  hopes  she  built, 

To    work   for  them!     What   golden  wishes  she 

forgot, 
To  live  for  them !     What  monuments,  a-gilt 

With  love,  she  left  half  made  and  left  to  rot, 
To  suffer  on  for  them!     What  flowers  did  wi't 

That  she  had  digged  to  plant  beside  her  door 

Of  life — digged,  but  unplanted  evermore! 


70  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

And  then,  because  the  world  did  sympathize 

With  her  and  love,  what  none  could  help  but 
love, 

And  marvel  at  her  willing  sacrifice, 

They  envied  \\zr  the  little  praise,  and  wove 

A  subtle  net  of  ruinous  treacheries: 

And  still  she  found  no  fault,  and  did  not  move 

From  out  her  path  of  kindness;  but  she  wept 

Her  grief  alone,  while  those  who  cursed  her  slept. 

She  bore  it  silently,  tho'  painfully, 
Until  it  froze  the  roses  on  her  cheek, 

And  slew  the  smile  that  wantoned  in  her  eye-- 
Still she  remembered  "  Blessed  are  the  meek!" 

At  last  they  stigmatized  the  purity 

Of  one  too  pure  for  earth  ;  and  then,  to  break 

The  last  chord  in  her  heart,  forgiving,  kind, 

They  drove  from  home,  the  injured  pure  in  mind ! 

And  yet  their  spite  went  after  her  afar, 
Until  the  poison  from  their  serpent  hiss 

Stung  deeper  in  the  daily  opened  scar — 

Rebroke  her  broken  heart  !    And  this,  ah,  this 

Was  more  than  such  a  woman's  heart  could  bear, 
And  so — she  died  !     Then  Jesus  stooped  to 
kiss 


PILGRIM  S    PROGRESS.  7 1 

And  dress  the  wounds  with  leaves  of  Gilead  ; 
For  there  was  balm,  which  turned  the  sad  to  glad  ! 

Well,  so  it  is:  the  ones  who  give  their  all 
Unselfishly  to  others,  get  least  thanks  below; 

And  hence  it  is  I  wonder,  and  I  call 
This  life  a  contradiction.     It  is  so. 

The  selfish  get* the  sweets,  the  kind  the  gall — 
The  cruel  get  the  weal,  the  kind  the  woe. 

The  world's  too  mean  to  learn  the  reason  why; 

And  so  the  best  and  kindest  quickest  die. 


We  know  but  little  of  poor  Pilgrim's  pains, 
He  nursed,  then  loathed,  then  blessed,  then 
cursed,  by  turns. 

The  soul  forever  after  knowledge  strains, 

Although  'tis  sorrow  to  the  heart  that  learns — 

And  yet  the  heart  of  man  wails  out  complains, 
If  life  refuses  more  of  "  sorrow" — yearns 

For  more  of  "  knowledge  !  knowledge  ! "  tho'  it 
knows 

'Tis  always  pickled  in  the  juice  of  woes! 

I  know  but  little  of  poor  Pilgrim's  pain; 
But  this  I  know,  'twas  surely  deep  of  soul 


72  SILVER  SHIMMER. 

'Twas  much  as  he  could  do  to  bear  the  strain 
That  broke  the  strings  of  her  sweet  lyre  with 
dole. 

God  pity  what  kept  dancing  in  his  brain  1 
Sometimes  he  almost  lost  his  self-control. 

Sometimes  he  trembled  with  a  half-begot 

Desire  to  go  where  Lilie  was — widl  thought  I 

Had  men  been  more  forgiving  to  those  two, 

And  not  bewildered  them  with  their  damnation, 
Of  course,  they  would  have  wed  and  journeyed 

thro" 

A  useful  life  together. — Desolation, 
Despair  and  Death  had  lost,  at  least,  a  few 
.   Morsels  to  glut  their  greedy  desperation. 
Both  erred  at  first ;  he  sinned  at  last ;  but  men 
Are  half  responsible  for  Pilgrim's  sin. 

Well,  well,  altho*  each  has  a  life  within 
That  may  be  sad  forever,  yet  one  must 

Pursue  an  outward  course,,  amid  earth's  din, 
That  is  not  always  so  bowed  in  the  dust. 

Outside  a  medley  picture  hangs  to  win — 
One  must  not  be  big  fool  enough  to  trust 

His  inner  life  to  lie  in  public  gaze, 

But  smile  and  act  lies  in  a  thousand  ways. 


PILGRIM  S    PROGRESS.  73 

So,  Pilgrim,  we  will  drop  this  horrid  matter, 
And  send  you  on  your  falsifying  way. 

Remember  this  tho':  "  Don't  go  near  the  water1/' 
Remember,  too,  your  tragical  affray, 

When  you  would  woo  again  a  frail  fair  daughter. 
Now  lift  your  hat  and  bid  the  past  "good  day!" 

And  go — the  Lord  knows  where,  and  so  do  I, 

And  I  will  tell  the  public  "by  and  by." 

What  histories  are  writ  in  "  by  and  by  !'* 
The  buxom  country  lass  laughs  out,  at  eve, 

"Ha!  Jake  will  be  here,  by  and  by,  and  I — 
Won't  I  be  jolly  then,  you  better  b'lieve ! 

And  kiss  him,  with  a,  '  how  is  that  for  high  ?' >; 
Ah!  how  her  happy  healthy  spirits  heave! 

But  then — Jake  doesn't  come,  alas !  and  so 

It  grows  into  a  "  by  and  by  "  of  woe! 

Our  joys  are  half  made  up  of  "by-and-bys," 
Which  we  expect  here  to  participate, 

How  few  of  which  we  ever  realize ! 

We  are  not  now,  but  "  by  and  by  "  are,  great. 

We  now  are  blind,  but  "  by  and  by"  have  eyes. 
But  one  thing  certain,  if  we  only  wait 

And  work  in  godly  patience,  you  and  I 

Will  grasp  the  whole  in  yon  great  "  By-and-by." 


74  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

O  Ellen,  with  your  holy  violet  eye ! 

O  thousand  promises  of  "  by-and-by !" 
O  expectation  born  to  smile  and  die ! 

O  "  by-and-by/'  thou  unintended  lie  I 
O  may  we  not  yet  realize,  on  high, 

The  promises  and  all  the  memory 
Of  what  we  hoped  to  have  beneath  the  sky, 
At  least,  above  it  in  the  "by-and-by ?" 

Now  "  comes  the  tug  of  war  "  in  truth;  for  now 
There  are  the  howls,  the  roar,  the  crack,  the 

crash, 

The  yells,  the  oaths,  the  wails,  the  rush,  the  row, 
The  screams,  the  cries,  the  shouts,  the  fire,  the 

flash, 
The  tears,  the  blood,  the  thud,  the  wounds,  the 

woe, 
The  cuts,  the  breaks,  the  prayers,  the  deaths, 

the  gash, 
The  curse,  the  damn,   the  hopes,   the   fears,  the 

scars, 
The% smoke — aye,  #//  the  hideousness  of  wars! 

And  yet  men  preach  and  preach  for  more  recruits 

To  gorge  this  hideousness,  with  all  the  zeal 
Christ's   ministers  would  show  for  Him.     The 
brutes 


PILGRIM  S    PROGRESS.  75 

Stand  still,  pop-eyed,  to  see  us  humans  reel, 
Dead-drunk  with  blood.     What  horrid  blastful 
fruits 

Grow  on  the  tree  of  war!     Men  make  a  meal 
Of  other  men}  thus  fat  themselves  for  others 
Again  to  fat  on — this  is  war,  my  brothers ! 

Well,  Pilgrim  he  was  fool  enough,  (or  wise 
Enough,  or  what  you  please,)  to  go  to  war. 

I'll  tell  you  how  it  happened,  to  tell  no  lies: 
He  still  was  bleeding  from  the  open  scar 

Of  most  disastrous  love.     O  how  he  tries 
To  sew  it  up!  but  tries  it  vainly;  for 

The  stitches  rip;  and  so — ah!  sad  mishap! 

At  every  stitch  more  ghastly  grows  the  gap! 

It  isn't  many  steps  down  from  the  blues 

Unto  despair,  and  he  for  sure  had  got  them. 

The  way  I  generally  have  them  "  beats  the  Jews;" 
But  now,  just  now,  I'm  free  of  them,  let  rot 
them ! 

He  looked  at  Uncle  Sam's  big  "  gun-boat  "  shoes 
And   thought  them   better  than  he  once  had 
thought  them. 

He  thought  he  surely  could  not  make  it  worse; 

Besides  an  office  might  refill  his  purse! 


76'  SILVER  SHIMMER. 

He  thought  of  living,  then  he  thought  of  dying, 
Then  thought  he  cared  but  little  which  he  did, 

He  thought  of  what  had  past,  then  fell  to  crying; 
He  thought  of  bullets,  then  he  sat  and  slid 

Down  on  a  plank  of  glory — sat  defying 
His  fears — then  roused  and  tried  to  rid 

Himself  of  that  most  hateful  thought,  the  curse 

Of  going  to  his  grave  without  a  hearse. 

Well,  after  he  had  sat,  and  sat,  and  brooded 
Upon  this  subject  till  he  thought  he  knew 

The  whole  of  it,  I  think  he  had  concluded 

To  stay  at  home — just  then  an  old  cock  crew! 

And  then  his  resolution  he  denuded 
Of  all  its  gloss,  and  saw  that  it  was  true, 

He  had  denied  his  country;  so  the  man 

Ran  o'er  the  whole  thing  in  his  mind  again. 

And,  when  he  came  around  again,  of  course, 
He  ended  with  the  self-same  resolution, 

"  I  do  deny  my  country! "     Loud  and  hoarse 
The  old  cock  crew  again.     Confusion 

Took  hold  of  Pilgrim;  but  he  had  to  force 
His  thought  o'er  it  again;  but  some  delusion 

Made  him  deny  again;  and,  growing  wroth, 

He  said  :  "  I  will  deny  thees  country!  "  with  an 
oath. 


PILGRIM  S    PROGRESS.  77 

And  then  the  old  cock  crew  so  sad,  so  loud — 
He  burst  his  mighty  heart,  and  fell  and  died  ! 

Then  Pilgrim  went  and  wound  him  in  a  shroud — 
Bore  him  to  the  potato-patch,  and  cried, 

And  laid  him  in  the  ground  ;  the  while  a  crowd 
Of  wondering,  weeping  hens,  with  heads  askew, 
soft  sighed 

To  hear  clods  fall  on  chiefest  of  the  cocks, 

And  asked  each  other,  "  was  he  orthodox  ?  " 

That  made  him  think  of  how  he  might  grow  fa- 
mous, 

By  crowing  others  into  ranks  ;  and  so 
He  turned  recruiting  officer — to  shame  us! 

He  thought,   "  Oh,  if  I  die  from  overflow 
Of  patriotism,  surely  that  a  glorious  name  is — 

Die  by  o'ercrowing,  like  the  cock,  you  know. 
Oh  !  how  the  patriotic  maids  will  stand  and  weep 
Above  me,  strewing  flowers  where  I  sleep  ! " 

And  so  he  went  to  shouting,  shouting,  SHOUTING, 
"RECRUITS  \"  and  finally  became  a  colonel. 

Ah  !  any  one  could  go  to  war,  sans  pouting 
For  so  much  fame — and  pay !     O,  this  eternal 

Blab  over  military  glory,  I  feel  like  scouting  ! 
The  men  that  get  the  name  be  most  infernal 


78  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

Cowards,  as  a  rule,  and  hide  behind,  and  grumble 
At,  those  who  earn  the  crown  for  them — the 
humble! 

I  did  it  once,  that  is,  I  stood  afront 

These  famous  cowards,  to  help  to  win  their 

crown 
Of  glittering  glory — bore  the  blasted  brunt 

Of  hardship  for  the  few — for  their  renown. 
I  lived  a  life  in  death  for  them.     I  wont 

Be  fool  enough  to  do't  again:    I've  grown 
More  sparing  of  my  flesh  and  bone  since  then — 
Grown  older — selfisher — like  other  men. 

Well,  Pilgrim  went  to  war;  and  he,  they  say, 
Was  quite  the  youngest  and  the  handsomest 

Commissioned  colonel  in  the  "  late  affray." 
O,   what    conflicting  thoughts  warred    in    his 
breast  ! 

He  tried  to  throw  his  memories  away, 

And  think  of  fame;  he  dare  not  think  of  rest, 

It  always  had  the  opposite  effect, 

Unrest,  because  it  made  him  recollect. 

But  Pilgrim  went  to  war — but  did  not  go 

Because  he  loved  his  country  (though  he  did), 
But  went  to  one  war  just  to  shun  the  woe 


OF  THB 

UNIVERSITY 


PILGRIM  S    PROGRESS. 

Of  other  war  (within),  and  there  was  need 
Of  some  such  move,  from  what  I  know 

And  what  you  know,  for  I've  told  you  —  forbid 
Not  Pilgrim  this  escape,  or  he  might  rave 
Himself  too  early  to  a  humble  grave  1 

So  Pilgrim  went  to  war,  and  so  did  many; 

But  out  of  all  the  thousands  men  that  went, 
Less  went  for  country  than  went  for  the  penny  — 
That  is  the  pay.     But,  of  these  few  God  sent 
For  patriots,  one  was  my  brother  Bennie. 

For  country  and  for  God  Ben  pitched  his  tent  — 
But  then  you're  unacquainted  with  my  brother, 
And  so  I  must  explain,  confound  the  bother  ! 

His  face  was  thinner  than  a  common  razor; 

His  hair  was  blacker  than  a  common  crow's; 
He  tried  a  mustache,  but  he  could'nt  "raise  her;" 

He  limped  from  corns  and  bunions  on  his  toes; 
And,  when  he  passed  a  lady,  he  would  sure  amaze 
her 

By  blushing,  whereupon  he'd  blow  his  nose 
"To  put  it  off"  (to  use  a  common  term) 
Then  whistle  off  the  danger  of  her  charm. 

Just  five  feet  in  his  boots,  and  not  much  taller 
When  out  of  them  —  with  little,  meek    black 
eyes  ! 


80  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

His  neck  so  short  he  scarce  could  wear  a  collar. 

But  Ben  was  nimble  as  the  nimblest  flies, 
And  flies  were  quick  as  Ben,  and  not  much 

smaller. 

He  never  sees  a  woman  but  he  shies, 
And  yet  he  loves  them  all — and  all  men  too; 
And  so  he  loves  his  country,  loves  his  God,  and 
you ! 

A  pillar  in  the  church  !  and,  though  so  small 
A  pillar,  still  he  held  a  greater  weight 

Than  any  other  pillar  of  them  all. 
Of  all  words  in  his  dictionary  "  hate" 

He  thought  the  strangest  word.     He  would  not 

call  .   .  . 
But,  Ben,  no  matter  if  you  are  so  great, 

I've  many  other  things  to  talk  about, 

So  I  can't  stop  for  you — I  drop  you  out ! 

So  Pilgrim  went  to  war — and  so  did  I. 

He  went  to  war  because  he  was  a  colonel; 
I  went  because — because  I  knew  not  why. 

The  whole  thing,  anyhow,  was  most  infernal; 
And  all  will  come  to  see  it  by  and  by. 

But,  if  infernal,  or  supernal,  or  eternal 
Disgrace  or  honor,  let  it  be;  but,  anyhow, 
I  hope  it  is  the  last  such  horrid  row. 


PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS.  81 

Well,  Pilgrim  went  to  war.     God  bless  the  cock 
That  crew  him  into  it!     It  did  him  good, 

If  not  the  "cause."     He  fell  upon  the  rock, 
By  that  manoeuver,  otherwise  it  would 

Have  fall'n  on  him.     He  Jed  the  passive  flock 
Of  twice  five  hundred  men,  and — ate  his  food. 

To  make  it  short,  here,  let  me,  reader,  say, 

His  regiment  chanced  on  a  fight  one  day. 

They  fought  right  well;  so  much  so,  I  suppose, 
That  Pilgrim  thought  it  quite  unnecessary 

For  him  to  help;  and  so  I  saw  his  nose, 
(Oh !  beautiful !  I  tell  you  he  was  wary !) 

Stuck  from  behind  a  tree.     His  voice  arose — 
Crew  loud  and  long  and  patriotic  very — 

But  let  me  add  here,  what's  more  to  his  credit, 

That,  though  that  once,  he  never  after  did  it. 

So  Pilgrim  went  to  war,  and  served — one  hundred 
days; 

And  so  he  grew  not  very  battle-gory. 
He  fought  one  battle  (only),  and  his  ways 

Were  strange  in  that — at  least,  so  goes  the  stoiy. 
He  shouts  commands,  his  regiment  obeys — 

Their  own  desires;  he  gets  the  glory, 
The  hero  colonel,  who  embraced  the  tree, 
The  handsome  colonel  aged  twenty  three. 
6 


82  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

Wild  ran  his  thoughts  the  day  he  left  the  army, 

Or  rather  jumped  by  fits  and  starts  and  stops. 
Remorse  turns  sometimes  stillest  lives  most  stormy. 

He  sleeps.     Dear  sleep  !  here  troubles  curtain 

drops. 
Life  has  no  other  gift  so  pleasant  for  me. 

Some  think  they  find  in  juices  of  the  hops 
A  pleasanter.     Well,  let  him  sleep,  poor  fellow, 
Perhaps  his  sorrows,  while  he  sleeps,  may  mellow. 


Go  to,  and  tattle !  yea,  go  to,  and  babble ! 

Tell  all  the  truth  and  five  times  more  of  liesf 
Nor  stop  to  think,  that  but  the  low-bred  rabble 

Would  stoop  to  taint  their  tongues;  for  never 

pries       / 
A  cultured  man,  but  fools  and  asses  dabble 

In  what  is  none  their  business.  All  the  "  whys  ?" 
And  "  wherefores  ?'  of  all  people's  business,  but 

their  own, 
Lie  with  the  lower-bred — with  them  alone. 

Besides  the  greater  curse  of  tattling  is, 

'Tis  always  'gainst  the  better,  worthier  ones. 
The  really  bad  and  low  are  free  from  this, 


PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS.  83 

The  ones  that  fill  the  social,  moral  thrones, 
Are  slandered.     Serpents  do  not  care  to  hiss 

At  foul  low  toads,  but  shake  their  rattle-bones 
And  spit  at  higher  beings  in  the  scale, 
At  humans.     O  thou  cursed  "  tattle-tale  !" 

The  wind  is  up  to-night,  my  spirits  down; 

And  sadness  sits  with  low  and  bowed  head 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  my  misnamed  frown; 

("For  when  were  sad,  oft  people  call  us  mad/') 
I'm  sad;  for  slander  sneaketh  thro'  the  town — 

A  damning  shadow  moving  an  a  tread, 
'Tis  touching  some  one's  head  snow-white  with 

grief; 
And  yet  the  pitiless  crowd  give  their  belief! 

I  know  she  must  be  innocent,  by  how 

The  tale  is  told;  none  tells  a  fact;  each  gives 

An  unformed  surmise — then  they  haste  to  throw 
A  curse  at  her.     I  trace  it  back  :  the  sieves 

Catch  less  and  less  at  every  sifting,  so 

It  comes  to  nothing — yet  it  grows  and  lives — 

Ah!  yonder  now  the  pretty  victim  goes; 

O  beautiful !  and  purer  than  the  snows ! 

Aye,  there's  the  rub,  if  it  were  otherwise 

She  wculd  not  then  be  slandered!     See  her  lip 


84  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

A-quiver  with  the  pain!     Her  lustrous  eyes 
Grown  dull  by  soaking  in  the  tears  that  drip 

Night  unto  night!     How  people  mock  her  sighs! 
How  heavy  lift  the  feet  that  used  to  trip 

Light  as  the  day!     God,  love  her  in  her  sadness! 

Her  sorrow  is  the  fiendish  tattler's  gladness. 

Some  time  ago  we  left  the  colonel  sleeping; 

(For  men  now  took  to  calling  Pilgrim  colonel.) 
And  thus  it  is  that  those  who  do  least  reaping 

Get  most  the  spoils  of  wars.     The  privates  ecu  n 

all, 
The  leaders  get  all,  to  make  the  assertion  sweeping, 

And  so  get  rid  a  subject  so  infernal! 
I  said  we  left  the  colonel  sleeping,  and 
That's  true,  we  did,  I'd  have  you  understand. 

His  sleep  however  did  not  seem  to  rest  him. 

He  traveled  forty  thousand  miles  in  thought. 
I  think  he'll  tell  his  dream,  if  you  request  him. 

1  only  know  this  much,  and  that  I  got 
From  the  convulsive  jerks  that  did  molest  him 

And  snatches  from  his  speech — the  plot 
Of  all  his  dream  was  too  clandestine  deep 
For  me  to  read  the  whole  he  thought  asleep. 

He  went  almost  two  times  around  the  world; 
And,  every  step  he  took,  he  stumbled  over 


PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS.  85 

Old  memories  in  his  fall;  and  there  was  swirled 
A  sea  of  blood  about  him;  and  would  hover 

Old  footsteps  back  of  him ;  and,  when  he  whirled, 
The  ghost  of  one  once  beautiful  reached  for 
the  rover; 

And  then  this  vision  would  be  broken  by 

A  fall  o'er  an  open  grave,  where,  lying  nigh, 

Another  hope  breathed  out  its  last;  and  then 
He  grasped  his  eyes,  as  from  his  memory 

A  flash,  like  lightning  o'er  a  battle  plain, 
Streamed  out  and  glimmered  far  and  nigh 

About  him  o'er  the  blood  and  corpses,  slain, 
Of  hopes — O  God !  of  everything  could  die 

And  he  could  wish  to  live ! — and  then  it  darkened; 

And  so  he  stumhled  on,  and  shook  and  hearkened. 

It  flashed  again,  and  he  stood  up  afront 
A  leaning  tombstone,  where  gleamed  in  the 

light 

A  name  red-writ  by  blood  and  by  the  brunt 
Pen    of  despair — name,    Lilie!  he   reeled   to 

right — 

A  thousand  slanderous  fingers  seemed  to  point 
Out  of  the  dimmer  dark.     He  cursed  the  bit- 
ter sight, 


86  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

And  shut  his  eyes  and  stumbled  on;  till,  lo! 
He  stumbled  in  a  river  red  with  woe! 

He  heard  the  splash  and  heard  the  hideous  scream 
Of  a  drowning  woman,  interluded  by 

Her  prayers  for  him,  who  sent  her  there.     The 

stream 
Reached  up.     She  uttered  one  wild  cry — 

It  broke  the  quietude,  and — broke  his  dream ! 
He  started  out  of  sleep!     His  lips  were  dry! 

His  face  was  white!     His  hands  did  tremble;  and 

His  heart  seemed  bursting  from  its  mortal  band ! 

One  poet  sings,   "  life  is  an  empty  dream !" 
Another  sings  the  opposite,  and  says 

Tis  real  and  is  earnest!"     Well,  we  deem 

That  both  are  right  and  both  are  wrong  (strange 
phrase) — 

As  if  the  things  we  see  in  dreaming  only  seem  ! 
Aye,  they  are  real  earnest,  and  do  craze 

Some  minds.     Life  is  a  sort  of  dream,  I  know — 

A  real  dream,  and  earnest  with  its  woe ! 

Some  people's  lives  are  one  long  night-mare  sleep 
Of  misery.     They  try  to  shriek — to  cry 

Themselves  awake,  but  cannot — O,  how  deep 
Their  slumber!  and  how  desolate  they  lie, 


PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS.  87 

And  cannot  stir  a  toe,  or  even  weep ! 

O,  they  would  give  a  world  to  wake,  or  die  1 
Ah !  you,  who  know  the  dread  of  night-mare,  go 
Pity  those  stretched  in  the  night-mare  of  their  woe ! 

Some  revel  in  a  perfect  bliss,  I  know — 

A  dream,  in  youth's  luxuriant  love,  of  sweets 

They  think  to  wake  to  after  they  shall  grow 
Some  older.     The  morning  of  their  manhood 
beats 

The  gong  for  breakfast  at  their  heads;  and,  lol 
They  wake  but  to  partake  of  chaffs  and  cheats, 

And  turn  and  curse  the  bed  of  roses  and  of  bliss 

They  pillowed  on,  and  sigh,  "Ah,  well,  I  wis!" 

Some  lives  dream  on  and  on,  but  dream  no  thing 
Of  much  importance — dream  of  platitude, 

And  talk  their  dreams  aloud.     Some  sing 
A  dream  o£  beauties  destitute  of  good. 

Some  dream,  and,  as  they  dream,  they  swing 
Sometimes  beyond  this  worldly  amplitude 

And  bring  back,  from  the  region  of  a  star, 

Some  thing,  some  thought^rgrand,  glorious,  from 

afar! 

vN 

These  are  the  geniuses,  sublime*o£  head. 
Some  dream  forever  out  beyond  the  crowd 


88 


SILVER    SHIMMER. 


And  whisper  them  to  us;  these  are  the  dead. 

Some  dream  forever,  altho'  never  loud, 
Low  down  by  buried  coffins  they  have  wed. 

Some  sleep,  and,  dumber  than  one  in  a  shroud, 
Dream  nothing;  these  are  what  I  call  the  "  sticks!" 
Some  dream  but  dissipations;  theseVe  "bricks  I" 


BE    IT   SO.  89 


BE  IT  SO. 

framer  of  imaginations 
has  not  his  platitudes  ? 

mine  is  on  me. 
Light  and  dull  as  withered  cornstalks. 
My  brain  lies  in  its  sheathing, 
Like  juiceless  pumice  in  a  cider  press. 
I  laugh  at  nothings — 
Stare  blank  at  keenest  of  wit-faces. 
My  fancies  glut  themselves  on  nothings,. 
Satisfied. 

The  sun-engilded  cloud, 
That  swings  along  the  sunset,  like  a  censer, 
Is  nothing  more  magnificent  to-day 
Than  tumble-weeds 
Rolling  over  the  sered  Winter-fields. 
The  green  leaves,  the  tracts  of  the  Church  of 

Nature, 

Shaking  at  us  eloquent,  betimes, 
To-day  are  utter  blank  tracts — 
Poor  brown  paper — unwritten,  unattractive. 


90  SILVER   SHIMMER. 

The  bird-songs, 

On  which  my  fond-imaginings  have  sailed, 

In  infinite  speed,  in  infinite  beauty,  in  infinite 
purity, 

Up  to  the  gates  of  a  new  born  Eden, 

To-day  sound  as  the  clamorous  croak  of  frogs. 

The  glimmering  river, 

On  which  have  floated  I,  entranced  in  vision, 

Out  to  the  LIMITLESS,  and  said: 

"  The  river  of  God's  peace  falling  into  infinity — 

Grand  sublimity!" 

To-day  'tis  as  the  murky  play-puddle  of  the  street- 
boys. 

Over  me  the  blue  skies  hangs  as  a  faded  dim-blue 
awning, 

Undelightful. 

The  beauty  of  a  woman's  eye  is  as  a  broken  gog- 
gle-glass, 

Lying  in  the  dusty  street,  dull-gleaming, 

Uncoveted. 

The  redness -of  a  woman's  cheek  for  loveliness, 

Is  as  the  red  bricks  'neath  my  feet. 

The  voluptuousness  of  her  bosom 

And  deepness  of  the  passions  of  her  rounded 
beauties 

Are  flat  commonness — 


BE    IT   SO.  91 

Unenticing  as  the  rattling  skeleton  in  my  study. 

My  aspirations,  dropt  from  the  ceiling  of  my  mind, 

Like  crumbling  plaster, 

Are  swept  out  unregretted. 

My  hopes  are  bees  in  Winter, 

Blank — aimless ! 

One  lone  hill  of  thought  thrust  up  on  this  level, 

Repeated  at  long  intervals. 

This  the  little  flowerless  thought-hill : 

"  What  is  man,  that  thou  art  mindful  of  him  ?" 

Verily!  verily! 


W hat  shall  I  write  then  ?     What 

Shall  be  the  goal,  the  finish  of  the  thought? 

I've  followed  on  the  trail,  till  that  I  sought 

Is  seen  a  gauzy  glimmering  ;  and  I  know  not 

If  it  be  some  immortal  ending  of  a  thought 

Far  in  the  Heaven,  or  flash  of  nothing  near — 

A  firefly  near,  or  window  light  beyond  it  thro' 

The  tossing  trees,  or  rising  star  set  in  the  blue! 

But  I  see  no  more  of  it— a  tear 

Has  put  it  out!    What  shall  I  write  then  ?  What 


92  SILVER    SHIMMER. 

Shall  be  the  finish  of  the  feeling  wrought  ? 
I  write — Hook — I  see   .    .    .    a  blotted  spot! 
So  what  I  yearn  to  write  is  written   .    .    .    not; 
And  what  is  written  here,  compared  to  what 
I  would  were  writ,  is  as  a  blot ! 


YA  01684 


